Seemingly startled by such a question, the girl shrunk from the Indian, and placed her hand upon her empty belt. She was unarmed; not even a knife glittered on her person.
“How could Artena shoot without a pistol?” she asked, “and why should she seek to save the enemies of Mouseh?”
Her reply astonished the Modoc.
“The big ranger has escaped the dark river,” he cried, turning to his warriors. “He is not far away,” and then he added, in a lower tone: “trail him, hunt him down this night.”
Almost instantly several Indians deserted the band, and Artena smiled faintly when they took their departure.
“Artena shall tell Jack about the blue-coats, but not now,” continued the chief, turning away, and his eyes again fell on Cohoon, toward whom he walked.
“Cohoon has had time to sing his death song, yet it has not passed his lips,” he said. “This is not Mouseh’s fault. Donald shot the pistol from his hands; but he will hit it no more.”
The eyes of the Squaw Spy were riveted upon the Modoc, and, as his pistol crept up for the second time, she started forward and laid her hand on his blue-coated arm.
He looked down upon her, his whole frame quivering with smothered rage.
“What Artena want? There is time enough to speak when Mouseh has settled with the spy,” and with the final word he tore his arm away, and glanced at a tall chief, who stepped to Artena’s side.