The girl darted forward.
“Dohma, our fates are inseparable,” she cried, washing the blood from his face. “Heaven tells me they are. Together we will hunt the White Tiger and find the ring.”
The Indian smiled, and looked up into Silver Rifle’s face inquiringly.
“Silver Rifle lose ring?”
“Yes,” eagerly, anxiously.
“Yellow ring with pretty stone?”
“Yes, Dohma. You know something about it!” almost shrieked the girl.
“Dohma find ring in big wood just ’fore he find Silver Rifle; but he no put it on his finger. See there, pale girl?” and with the question, the Indian held up his left hand, the third finger of which was missing.
“Dohma find ring once, put it on finger. Ring no come off when white trader want it, so chief cut off Dohma’s finger to get ring. When Dohma saw pretty ring in woods, he said bad word, an’ let it lay.”
Silver Rifle groaned.