The man was in rough clothing not dissimilar from that which Wilder himself was wearing. His sturdy body was coatless and clad in a simple grey flannel shirt, while his nether garments were of the common moleskin type. He was old, but how old Wilder could not estimate with any certainty. His eyelessness, and his snow-white hair and beard made the task impossible. One thing alone impressed the onlooker in those first startled moments. The man was blind, and his skin, in sharp contrast with his hair, was of a darkish yellow. In a moment he had realised the truth of his original estimate of the nationality of his unwilling hosts.
The woman at the blindman’s side was a quaint, pathetic little figure. She, too, was old, with greying black hair. She was clad in something in the nature of a silken kimono, and looked as fragile as a figure of exquisite porcelain. Her slightly slanting black eyes were steadily searching the face of the white intruder while she stood clasping the hand of the man at her side, in a manner suggesting motherly solicitude. There was nothing resentful in her gaze. It was simply appealing, troubled, appraising.
The whiteman’s order held them. They remained motionless, without a word or sign, just where they had been discovered. It was almost as if, like naughty children, they were awaiting the expected chiding following upon some escapade in which they had been found out.
Realising their submission Wilder’s attitude underwent a change. He dismissed his tone of sharp authority, but retained his threatening gun in evidence.
“If you’ve a notion to come out into the open instead of spying around in hiding I’ll put this gun up, and we can talk,” he said, with a look in his eyes closely approaching a smile. “You see, I knew you were around, and only took possession of your room in the hope of bringing you out into daylight. Guess you’ve nothing to worry with if ther’s no monkey-play doing. Well?”
He eyed them both searchingly while he spoke, but it was the queer little, troubled-eyed woman whom he really addressed. The painful fascination of the man’s terrible eyes had passed leaving behind only a feeling of nausea.
After the briefest hesitation the woman spoke. She spoke in good enough English with just the faintest foreign accent and occasional awkward twist in her phraseology. Her voice was low and infinitely sweet, and her whole manner suggested intense relief from some overwhelming burden of terror.
“We feared it was the man, Usak, come back,” she said. “He say he would come, and we look for him all the time. But you are white. Oh, yes. You are not the Indian that he is. You come like all those others who look for the thing this country has to give. It is so? Yes?”
With the mention of the Indian whom Wilder knew to have been the servant of the murdered Marty Le Gros there came a movement on the part of the blindman. It was a gesture, sudden and almost forceful. And the hand that made it was that which the woman beside him was grasping. He half turned as though about to speak. But he remained silent, obviously restraining himself with difficulty.
Wilder saw the movement. He realised the man’s sudden disquiet. And he understood. A feeling of elation swept over him. These people feared the coming of Usak. These two strange, shy creatures in their far-off secret home. And Usak had threatened them with his return. Why?