“Oh, yes, awfully sorry. But we were afraid—of that—eh—that is—”
“Yes, Mandy,” said her husband, making visible efforts to control his voice, “we frankly were afraid that that old devil Copperhead had come this way and—”
“He did!” cried Mandy.
“What?”
“He did. Oh, Allan, I was going to tell you just as the Inspector came, and I am so sorry. When you left I wanted to help. I was afraid of what all those Indians might do to you, so I thought I would ride up the trail a bit. I got near to where it branches off toward the Reserve near by those pine trees. There I saw a man come tearing along on a pony. It was this Indian. I drew aside. He was just going past when he glanced at me. He stopped and came rushing at me, waving a pistol in his hand. Oh, such a face! I wonder I ever thought him fine-looking. He caught me by the arm. I thought his fingers would break the bone. Look!” She pulled up her sleeve, and upon the firm brown flesh blue and red finger marks could be seen. “He caught me and shook me and fairly yelled at me, 'You save my boy once. Me save you to-day. Next time me see your man me kill him.' He flung me away from him and nearly off my horse—such eyes! such a face!—and went galloping off down the trail. I feared I was going to be ill, so I came on homeward. When I reached the top of the hill I saw the smoke and by the time I arrived the house was blazing and Smith was carrying water to put out the fire where it had caught upon the smoke house and stables.”
The men listened to her story with tense white faces. When she had finished Cameron said quietly:
“Mandy, roll me up some grub in a blanket.”
“Where are you going, Allan?” her face pale as his own.
“Going? To get my hands on that Indian's throat.”
“But not now?”