After a pause Haltren said, “I don’t hear it, Tiger.”
“Hunh!” grunted the Seminole. “Paddl’um damn slow. Bime-by you hear.”
And bime-by Haltren heard.
“Somebody is landing,” he said.
The Indian folded his arms and stood bolt upright for a moment; then, “Hunh!” he muttered, disgusted. “Heap squaw. Tiger will go.”
Haltren did not hear him; up the palmetto-choked trail from the landing strolled a girl, paddle poised over one shoulder, bright hair blowing. He rose to his feet; she saw him standing in the haze of the fire and made him a pretty gesture of recognition.
“I thought I’d call to pay my respects,” she said. “How do you do? May I sit on this soap-box?”
Smiling, she laid the paddle on the ground and held out one hand as he stepped forward.
They shook hands very civilly.
“That was a brave thing you did,” she said. “Mes compliments, monsieur.”