“Good gracious! Don’t kill me!” cried a familiar voice.
“Omialik!”
Two sorts of relief rang in that cry. The Kabluna was on his way back—then they had all told lies, lies, lies! The boy’s sorrowing heart rushed out to his friend, whom he had so nearly shot; he threw himself into the white man’s arms and cried like a baby.
“Why, Kak! Why, Kak! Were you lost? Were you scared?”
Omialik repeated over and over as he patted the sobbing youngster: “Brace up. It’s all right now. We’re not many hours from home. Come—come! Brace up.”
“It isn’t me,” cried the boy. “It’s Noashak. She’s been stolen by Indians!”
“What nonsense!”
“That’s what dad said, but she’s gone just the same. The men went down to the Indians’ camp to hunt for her; but the Indians are gone. And you were gone too! The women are telling that you were in league with Muskrat.”
“Great Jehoshaphat!”
This was startling news—bad news—bad enough to make the white man want to hear it quite correctly.