Turning, she walked straight toward the spot where the reindeer had fallen. The faithful Terogloona, in spite of his fear of the Indians of the Little Sticks, followed at her heels.
When they arrived at the spot, they found a man bending over the dead deer. In his hand was the rifle that had sped the bullet. The soft-soled “muck-lucks” that Marian and Terogloona wore made no sound on the snow. The man’s back was toward them and they came upon him unobserved. The powerful Terogloona would have leaped upon his back and thrown him to the snow, but Marian held him back.
“Stranger,” said the girl, in as steady a voice as she could, “why did you kill our deer?”
Like a flash the man gripped his rifle as he wheeled about. Then, seeing it was a girl who spoke, he lowered his weapon.
Marian’s eyes took him in with one feeling glance. His face was haggard, emaciated. His hands were mere skin and bones. He was an Indian.
“Too hungry,” he murmured, “No come caribou. No come ptarmigan. No fish in the river; no rabbits on the tundra!” He spread out his bony hands in a gesture of despair.
“But you needn’t have killed him. Had you come to us we would have given you meat, all you could use.” The girl’s face was frank and fearless, yet there was a certain huskiness in her voice that to the sensitive ears of the Indian betokened kindness.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “maybe you would. Yesterday we saw other reindeer herd, north mebby ten miles. Want deer; ask man, big man, much whiskers; say want food. Man said: ‘Get out!’ Want’a kill me if I not go quick. Bad man, that one. We go way. Then see your herd. Say, take one deer. You want to fight, then fight. Better to die by bullet than by hunger.”
“The man you saw,” said Marian, her heart sinking as she realized that he must be a half day in the lead, “was Bill Scarberry. Yes, he is a mean man. But see! Have you a cache? Some place where you can keep meat from the wolves and wolverines?”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the Indian eagerly. “Ten miles. Diesa River, a cabin.”