Jessie walked straight to where Onistah lay on the balsam boughs and knelt beside him. Beresford was putting on one of his feet a cloth soaked in caribou oil.
"What did he do to you?" she cried, a constriction of dread at her heart.
A ghost of a smile touched the immobile face of the native. "Apache stuff, he called it."
"But—"
"West burned his feet to make him tell where you were," Beresford told her gently.
"Oh!" she cried, in horror.
"Good old Onistah. He gamed it out. Wouldn't say a word. West saw us coming and hit the trail."
"Is he—is he—?"
"He's gone."
"I mean Onistah."