With a swift movement of her fingers she flashed on the hall light. Her gaze searched the brown, shiny face of the little chap. She read there an affidavit of the truth of his mother's tale. The boy had his father's trick of squinting a slant look at anything he found interesting. It was impossible to see him and not recognize Colby Macdonald reincarnated.
"What is your name?" asked Sheba suddenly.
The youngster hung back shyly among the folds of the Indian woman's skirt. "Colmac," he said at last softly.
"Come!" Sheba flung open the door of the living-room and ushered them in.
Macdonald, pacing restlessly up and down the room during her absence, pulled up in his stride. He stood frowning at the native woman, then his eyes passed to Elliot and fastened upon him. The face of the Scotchman might have been chipped from granite. It was grim as that of a hanging judge.
Gordon started to explain, then stopped with a shrug. What was the use? The man would never believe him in the world.
"I'll remember this," the Alaskan promised his rival. There was a cold glitter in his eyes, a sudden flare of the devil that was blood-chilling.
"It's true, then," broke in Sheba. "You're a—a squawman. You belong to this woman."