“Do you hear, Pipina? Where is the good white man, Cody Casson, my friend?”
Then the old woman raised her hands above her head and gave vent to a wailing, desolate cry.
“Pipina no can tell. Casson her friend, too, good friend. He is gone.”
Bomba’s face darkened and again his heart contracted under the cold hand of anguish.
“Tell me, Pipina,” he commanded. “Where has he gone? What has become of him?”
“We sit down and I will tell you,” returned the squaw. “Pipina weak, sick—”
For answer, Bomba cleared a space and, taking the old woman, placed her as comfortably as he could with her back resting against a giant tree.
He sat down opposite her, his arms folded, his glance full upon her face.
“Now, Pipina, tell Bomba all,” he urged.
The old woman looked about her and shuddered. She wrapped her skinny arms about her as though they were a garment and had power to ward off the chill of the night.