The woman again nodded. She quite understood now, and her eyes brightened suddenly as she turned their dazzling depths of blue upon her questioner. She understood these men as they little thought she understood them.
“It is the Spirit–the Great Spirit,” she said, in her broken speech. “The Spirit of–Moosefoot Indian. Him watches Aim-sa–Queen of Moosefoot. She–White Squaw.”
Ralph turned away uneasily. These mysterious allusions troubled him. Nick could not withdraw his fascinated gaze. Her strange eyes held him captive.
They took her words without a doubt. They accepted all she said without question. They never doubted her identity with the White Squaw. Primitive superstition deeply moved them.
“You was scared when you see him just now?” said Ralph, questioningly.
Aim-sa nodded.
“He come to–take me,” she said, halting over the words. “The Moosefoot–they angry–Aim-sa stay away.”
“Hah!”
Nick thrust his rifle out towards her.
“Here take it. It shoots good. When ‘The Hood’ comes, shoot–savvee?”