And Ralph had known it from the moment he had heard his brother singing. He looked up from his cooking-pot, and his fork remained poised above the black iron lid. At last his answer came in a hoarse whisper.
“Her?”
“Yes, I spoke to her, I guess.”
“Spoke to her?”
And the whites of the elder man’s eyes had become bloodshot as he stood up from his crouching attitude over the fire.
His stolid face was unmoved, only his eyes gave expression to that which passed behind them. There was a dangerous look in their sunken depths which the depressed brows accentuated. He looked into his brother’s face, and, for awhile, the supper was forgotten.
“Yes, spoke to her,” said Nick, emphatically. “She ain’t gone from us. She ain’t left this valley. She’s scairt o’ the Moosefoots. That all-fired ‘Hood.’ She said as they were riled that she’d stopped in the white man’s lodge. Said they’d made med’cine an’ found out where she’d gone. Say, that ‘Hood’ is the very devil, I’m thinkin’. She’s scairt to death o’ him.”
But though Ralph listened to his brother’s words he seemed to pay little heed. The blow had fallen on him with stunning force. Nick had seen Aim-sa; he had been with her that day, perhaps all day. And at the thought he broke out in a sweat. Something seemed to rise up in his throat and choke him.
“You look that glad. Maybe you’ve had a good time.”
Ralph’s words came as though he were thinking aloud.