“Just what I said, Hale Oakham. If he can take a few grains of dust and make a shoot that will grow into a giant tree like yonder monster itauba, don’t you think he can create a small white girl like me?” Her orchid-blue eyes glowed innocently into his.
The eager questions that he would have asked froze upon his lips, for a party of Indians approached.
The six nearly naked red men came close and surveyed him, toying nervously with their primitive, feather-decorated weapons.
A tall, handsome young fellow who possessed something of the picturesque perfection of the North American plains’ Indian stepped forward and, in perfect English, said:
“Good morning, white stranger. What is it you wish of the Ungapuks?”
“I came to see your white cacique,” said Hale.
“Aimu? What is it you wish of Aimu? He is ours, white stranger.”
“Yes, he is yours. I come as a friend, perhaps to help him in his great work.”
“Perhaps!” The young Indian folded his bronze, muscular arms over his broad chest and continued his cool survey of Hale. “White men before you have come: spies and thieves. Some we poisoned with curari. Others Aimu took into the Room of Release.”