Then, like one in a dream, she moved to the Indian’s side, and stood over him in silence. She had not fully recovered her senses.
“Silver Rifle come to Dohma?” he said, gently, taking her hand. “He find her among fir, and bring her to cave.”
She did not resist, and the young savage drew her down to his side, and looked lovingly into her eyes.
Slowly but surely her reason returned, and while the Chippewa was in the midst of a recital of his hunt for her, a footstep sounded on the flinty floor.
Quickly Dohma’s hand shot forward to his rifle, and wheeling as he leaped to his feet, he confronted a huge Indian, a foot taller than himself, and with the physique of a Hercules.
For a moment the two Chippewas faced each other amid dead silence, and then Dohma extended his hand, which the giant griped as he glanced at the girl.
“Silver Rifle and Dohma live in cave?” he said, with a sneer, which, although scarcely perceptible, did not escape the young chief’s notice.
“Dohma find Silver Rifle dead by the big waters. But he bring her back to the world,” was the calm rejoinder.
“Now what Dohma goin’ to do with Silver Rifle?”
“Teach her to love him!”