"How do you know?" suddenly interrupted Dolores. "I remember all that. Don't want to, but I can't help it. Same thing happens a great many times. Apaches are great warriors. Many Bears is a great chief. Bring back heap of prisoners every time."
She was telling Murray what he wanted to know, but he saw that he must ask his questions carefully, for, as he said to himself: "I never saw a woman so completely Indianized. She is more of an Apache than a Mexican now."
He talked and Dolores answered him, and all the while the two girls heard every word. Ni-ha-be would have liked to make comments every now and then, and it was quite a trial to be compelled to keep so still, but Rita would not have spoken on any account. It seemed to her as if Dolores were telling all that to her instead of to Send Warning. She found herself thinking almost aloud about him.
"What a kind, sweet voice he has! He can not speak Apache. I know he is good."
In another moment she again came near betraying herself, for the words were on her very lips before she could stop them and still them down to an excited whisper.
"He is not talking even Mexican now. It is the tongue of the Talking Leaves, and I can hear what he says."
More than that, for she soon found that she could repeat them over and over to herself, and knew what they meant.
Murray had talked to Dolores as long as was permitted by Indian ideas of propriety, and it was just as he was turning away from her that he said to himself, aloud and in English: "I am not mistaken. She is the same woman. Who would have thought she could forget so? I am on the right track now." And then he walked away.
He had not gone far, however, when his footsteps were checked by the sound of war-whoops from the throats of the triumphant braves on their return to the camp.
"That's the whoop for prisoners," he exclaimed. "If they bring in any, I must not let them see me here. I never hated Apaches more in my life. It won't do to lose my friends. Here they come."