"I thought so," it said simply.
Puff, puff went the white man's pipe, until even though it was daylight, the glow lit up his face.
"You did me a service once," he continued at last, "a big service—and I've not forgotten. I'll go now, or stay, as you wish."
Still the Indian stood in the doorway looking out into the careless, smiling infinite.
"I understand. You have something to tell me, something you think I should know."
The old man thumbed the ashes in the pipe bowl absently.
"I repeat, it is for you to choose."
Silence fell; a lapse so long that, old man as he was, Manning felt his heart beat more swiftly in anticipation. Then at last the Indian moved. Deliberately, noiselessly he turned. Equally deliberately he drew a robe opposite his visitor and, still very erect, sat down on the ground—his long fingers locked across his knees.
"I choose to listen," he said. "Tell me, please."
For the second time, because he needs must be doing something, the white man filled his pipe. The hand that held the tobacco pouch shook a bit now involuntarily, and a tiny puff of the brown flakes fell scattering outside the bowl onto his knee.