“Well,” Garry mused, “this is a queer business. First we try to guard the airlanes and see a spook crash in the sky; then we get lost and have to set down at the very best place—from the way that pilot was handled. Now I’m bound for some Indian tepee, I guess—to get a charm. For what? How does he know anything, and what does old Ti know?”
He soon discovered.
“This is my house.” The car stopped in front of a small, but neat frame building, a cottage whose windows gave out cheerful light. Garry, accustomed to stories of frontier Indians, gazed in astonishment as he was ushered into a neat, well-furnished living room with a telephone in one corner. At a wave of the slim, gnarled hand he sat down, quiet and mystified. From a rear room a woman, not altogether Indian, and very pretty in a bold, strong-featured way, brought in cold meat, bread and cocoa which she put on a handy table. Invited to eat, Garry realized how ravenous he was and attacked the food with good will.
“You like rest?” the Indian asked when the girl, probably a daughter, removed the dishes and cups.
“I’d rather go back and help my chum.”
“He not back yet. Rest! You sleep, huh?”
Garry shook his head; but a drowsiness seemed to be creeping over him; his muscles felt heavy and inert; he struggled with the increasing desire to sleep, feeling some uneasiness as the steady eyes held without blinking, watching him intently.
He relaxed, and began to dream an uneasy, garbled mass of disconnected flashes. He felt as though he drifted above a dark, dismal swamp and he saw again that spectral ship flying toward him. The dream altered. He seemed to be watching Chick, in some dim light, examining a scroll or roll of paper-thin, almost transparent.
Soon he awoke.
“I didn’t mean to drop off—excuse me,” he mumbled.