"Say," the American trapper, determined to be treated no longer as a log on the woodpile, came over to the hearth and stood confronting Storm, "do you talk white?"
Storm sat up yawning, stretched himself, looked at the trapper, laughed, offered his hand. "Sorry," he said, and the English felt heavy, like bullets in his mouth. "English—I half forget—English, I speak no word three years. Talk white, eh? So you're American!" The mother tongue came easier. "I knew an American once, name of Silas."
"Silas, what?"
"Just Silas. Do your tribe have two names? I had two, once."
"Hiram J. Kant's my name."
"I asked no question, did I? You are my guest. I do not ax you why you tried to make free with women of my tribe, or why the men burned you out, or why you took cover here, or why my people wait my leave to kill you."
"How did you know all that? It's more 'en these Injuns know, and I seen they telled you nothin'. They nary looked my way."
"Who told me about Nan?"
The American went white, and shrank against the wall.
"What d'ye mean?" he asked under his breath. "I ain't been asleep—to talk in my sleep since you come."