“That was Red Indian what I was talkin’ then,” he explained in his ordinary voice, then sinking it to its low, roaring note and scowling more ferociously than ever, “Snake Face says the Pale-face must be scalped and cooked and eat!”
He took out a penknife and opened it as though to perform the operation, then continued, “But me and the others say that if you’ll be a squaw an’ cook for us we’ll let you go alive.”
Miss Cannon dropped on to her knees.
“Most humble and grateful thanks, great Red Hand,” she said. “I will with pleasure be your squaw.”
“I’ve gotter fire round here,” said William proudly, leading her to the back of the wigwam, where a small wood fire smouldered spiritlessly, choked by a large tin full of a dark liquid.
“That, O Squaw,” said Red Hand with a dramatic gesture, “is a Pale-face we caught las’ night!”
The squaw clasped her hands together.
“Oh, how lovely!” she said. “Is he cooking?”
Red Hand nodded. Then,
“I’ll get you some feathers,” he said obligingly. “You oughter have feathers, too.”