"Say An-ina," he began at last. "I've been reading a whole heap. It's what the man, Brand, wrote. He seems to have been a pretty great feller."
The woman nodded as he paused.
"Heap good man," she commented.
Her eyes lit with an emotion there could be no misunderstanding. For all the savage stock from which she sprang the dead white man had claimed a great loyalty and devotion.
"You see, An-ina," Steve went on, "I came along up here to chase up the murder of two men. My work's to locate all the facts, arrest the murderers, take them back to where I come from, and make my report."
"Sure. That how An-ina mak it so."
The woman's eyes were questioning. She was wondering at the meaning of all this preliminary. And she was not without disquiet. She had come to realize that, with the death of her mistress, only this man and his scouts stood between her and disaster. She could not rid herself of the dread which pursued her now. Little Marcel was a white child. This man was white. She—she was just a squaw. She was of the colour of these "Sleeper" Indians. Would they take the child of her mother heart from her, and leave her to her fate amongst these folk who slept the whole winter through?
"Yes," Steve was gazing thoughtfully at the light which came from under the rough cardboard shade of the lamp. "Well, the whole look of things has kind of changed since I've—" he indicated the papers on the desk—"taken a look into all these."
"Him read—much. Him look—always look. So."
Steve nodded.