“Why are you going away? Your baby will be sick again. Mother wants you to stay. Daddy’s here. Wait! Wait! Here, Daddy! Here she is!”
Dashing back through the bushes, he seized his father and dragged him hurriedly to where the Indian woman stood. She had flung her bundle of camp impedimenta to the ground and, with her child rolled up in the blanket, she stood like a wild animal fiercely at bay.
“Onawata!” gasped the man, and stood gazing at her, speechless, for some seconds. Then with a quick glance at the boy he spoke rapidly in Indian. Fiercely she replied. Again the man spoke, pointing to the child. For reply she flung toward him an accusing finger. As if she had struck him in the face, the man stood, white, aghast, rooted in his tracks.
“Paul,” he said in a voice harsh and shaken, “go back to the house and tell Mother——”
“Is the baby dead?” said the boy in an awed voice.
“Dead? Dead?” said his father. “Would to God——No! Nonsense! Dead? No fear!” he added with a harsh laugh.
“Let me see,” said the boy, springing forward and pulling the blanket from the face of the child. “No, he’s all right. See, Daddy! Isn’t he lovely?”
The man glanced at the child, shuddered, then with an obvious effort pulled himself together.
“He’s quite all right, Paul. Run back now and tell Mother I am—I have gone to see them safe to their camp.” He spoke a few words to the woman. “Yes, about a mile down the valley. All right, old chap! I’ll be right back,” he added kindly. “Off you go now. Cut away!”
“Come,” he said to the woman, picking up her bundle, as Paul reluctantly turned away homeward. For some minutes Gaspard strode in silence along the trail, followed by the woman, then flinging down the bundle he faced her.