“Yes. They burn. They burn all up. But not so they die. Oh, no.” The Indian shook his head, and the brooding light in his black eyes suddenly blazed up afresh. “Listen,” he cried, in his fierce way. “I tell you. I—Usak. I see him all. I go mad. Oh, yes. I think of Pri-loo. I think of little Felice. I think of the good Marty. So I go into the house just wher’ I can. I go by the door which him burn right out. Then I find ’em. Then I find ’em all dead. An’ the fire cook ’em lak—meat.”
The great rough creature thrust the greasy fur cap back from his forehead. There was sweat on his low brow. But it was the sweat inspired by his fierce emotions.
He turned away in desperation, and so his black eyes were hidden from the search of the trader’s. A curious feeling of helplessness in the midst of the storm of rage besetting him threatened overwhelming. There was a moment even when the soft arms about his neck seemed to be stifling him. But his weakness passed in a flash. The next moment the furious onslaught of the savage in him held sway.
“But the fire not kill him,” he cried, his tone lowered to something like a snarl of savagery. “I look. I find ’em, Pri-loo. My woman. I find her, yes, an’ I think I go crazy sure. They kill her—my woman. My good woman. They shoot her by the head. It all break up. Oh, yes. My woman. They kill her—dead.” His voice died out and his black eyes were turned away again to hide that which looked out of them. But in a moment he went on. “Then I find him. The good boss, Marty. Him belly all shoot to pieces. Oh, yes. They kill him all up dead, too. Then I look for Felice. Little Felice.” His arms tightened about the child nestling against his shoulder. “No Felice. She all gone. I think maybe they eat her. I think. I look. No. No Felice. So I go out an’ think some more. I stand by bluff. Then I find ’em. She mak big cry out. She by the bluff. So I find her. They throw her in the bush in the blanket of my woman, Pri-loo.”
The man paused again and a deep breath said far more of the thing he was enduring than his words told. After a moment he nodded his head, and his lank, black hair brushed the fair face of the child in his arms.
“So I bring her, an’ you tak her. You, an’ your good whitewoman tak her like your own. I go. I find this Euralian mans. I know ’em wher’ they camp. Oh, yes. Usak big hunter. Shoot plenty much good. I kill ’em all up dead. They kill ’em my woman, Pri-loo. My good woman. They kill ’em my good boss, Marty. So I kill ’em, too. Now I go. You tak Felice. Bimeby I come back when all Euralian kill dead. Then I tak Felice. I raise her like the good boss, by the farm. It for her. Yes. That farm. Marty love little Felice all the time. He mak all good thing for Felice. So I mak same all good thing, too. That so.”
Jim McLeod made no attempt to reply. Somehow it seemed impossible even to offer comment in face of the terrible story the man had brought to him, and the simple irrevocable purpose in his spoken determination. He held out his arms to receive the murdered man’s child, and Usak, with infinite gentleness, released himself from the clinging arms so reluctant to part from him.
“You tak ’em. Yes,” he said as he passed the babe over. “Bimeby I come back. Sure.”
Jim folded the child to his broad bosom in clumsy, unaccustomed fashion. He was hardly conscious of the thing he did. His horrified imagination was absorbed by the terrible scene he was witnessing through the eyes of the Indian. Quite suddenly his mind leapt back to the thing Marty had intended and had been at such pains to discuss with him, and his question came on the instant.
“Everything? Everything was burnt out? There was nothing left? Books? Papers?”