"Just a minute!" she said. Of Royal's companion she sternly demanded,
"What do you mean by this trick?"
The old redskin shot her a swift glance; then his face became expressionless and he gazed stolidly at the river.
"What do you mean?" the woman repeated, in a voice quivering with fury.
"Him people—" the chief began, but Royal spoke for him. Removing his hat, he made a stiff little bow, then said, courteously enough:
"I'm sorry to hold you up, ma'am, but—"
"You're not holding me up; I'm holding you up," the woman broke in. "What do you take me for, anyhow?" She stared at the white man so coldly, there was such authority and such fixity of purpose in her tone and her expression, that his manner changed.
"I'm on orders," said he. "There's no use to argue. I'd talk plainer to you if you was a man."
But she had turned her eyes to the chief again. "You lying scoundrel!" she cried, accusingly. "I made a straight deal with you and your people and I agreed to your price. I'm not going to let you throw me down!"
The wooden-faced object of her attack became inexplicably stupid; he strove for words. "Me no speak good," he muttered. "Me no savvy—"
"Perhaps you'll savvy this." As the Countess spoke she took from her pocket a short-barreled revolver, which she cocked and presented in a capable and determined manner so close to the old native's face that he staggered backward, fending off the attack. The woman followed him.