For a moment he stood, stupefied, jaw fallen and mouth open. "Whad you doin' here?" he asked at last.
"No food my camp. I hunt," Onistah said.
"Tha's a lie. Where's the McRae girl?"
The slim Indian said nothing. His face was expressionless as a blank wall.
West repeated the question. He might have been talking to a block of wood for all the answer he received. His crafty, cruel mind churned over the situation.
"Won't talk, eh? We'll see about that. You got her hid somewheres an' I'm gonna find where. I'll not stand for yore Injun tricks. Drop that gun an' marchê-back to the cabin. Un'erstand?"
Onistah did as he was told.
They reached the cabin. There was one thing West did not get hold of in his mind. Why had not the Blackfoot shot him from the tree? He had had a score of chances. The reason was not one the white man would be likely to fathom. Onistah had not killed him because the Indian was a Christian. He had learned from Father Giguère that he must turn the other cheek.
West, revolver close at hand, cut thongs from the caribou skins. He tied his captive hand and foot, then removed his moccasins and duffles. From the fire he raked out a live coal and put it on a flat chip. This he brought across the room.
"Changed yore mind any? Where's the girl?" he demanded.