"What picture in what locket?"
"The locket I see at Whoop-Up, the one Pierre Roubideaux buy from old
Makoye-kin's squaw."
"A picture of a Blackfoot?"
"No-o. Maybe French—maybe from the 'Merican country. I do not know."
Whaley took the pipe from his mouth and sat up, the chill eyes in his white face fixed and intent. "Go back to Whoop-Up, Lemoine. Buy that locket and that ring for me from Pierre Roubideaux. See Makoye-kin—and his squaw. Find out where she got it—and when. Run down the whole story."
The trapper took off a fur cap and scratched his curly poll.
"Mais—pourquois? All that will take money, is it not so?"
"I'll let you have the money. Spend what you need, but account for it to me afterward."
Jessie felt the irregular beat of a hammer inside her bosom. "What is it you think, Mr. Whaley?" she cried softly.
"I don't know what I think. Probably nothing to it. But there's a locket. We know that. With a picture that looks like you, Lemoine here thinks. We'd better find out whose picture it is, hadn't we?"
"Yes, but—Do you mean that maybe it has something to do with me? How can it? The sister of Stokimatis was my mother. Onistah is my cousin. Ask Stokimatis. She knows. What could this woman of the picture be to me?"