Through the teepee wall their voices could be heard in quiet conversation. In a few minutes the old squaw passed out on an errand and then in again, eying the Inspector as she passed with malevolent hate. Again she passed out, this time bowed down under a load of blankets and articles of Indian household furniture, and returned no more. Still the conversation within the teepee continued, the boy's voice now and again rising high, clear, the other replying in low, even, deep tones.
“I will just get my horse, Inspector,” said Cameron, making his way through the group of Indians to where Ginger was standing with sad and drooping head.
“Time's up, I should say,” said the Inspector to Cameron as he returned with his horse. “Just give him a call, will you?”
Cameron stepped to the door of the teepee.
“Come along, Chief, we must be going,” he said, putting his head inside the teepee door. “Hello!” he cried, “Where the deuce—where is he gone?” He sprang quickly out of the teepee. “Has he passed out?”
“Passed out?” said the Inspector. “No. Is he not inside?”
“He's not here.”
Both men rushed into the teepee. On the couch the boy still lay, his eyes brilliant with fever but more with hate. At the foot of the couch still crouched the old crone, but there was no sign of the Chief.
“Get up!” said the Inspector to the old squaw, turning the blankets and skins upside down.
“Hee! hee!” she laughed in diabolical glee, spitting at him as he passed.