"They're Apache squaws, Steve."
"I don't care. I'm white!"
"So am I. Tell you what, Steve—Ha! I declare!"
"What's the matter, Murray?"
"One of 'em's white! Sure's you live. They sha'n't touch a hair of their heads!"
"White or red?" whispered Steve, and he was not speaking of the color of Ni-ha-be's hair or of Rita's.
The expression of Murray's face astonished Steve. It was ghastly white, under all its tan and sunburn, and the wrinkles seemed twice as deep as usual, while the fire in his sunken eyes was fairly blazing. It was likely to be a bad time for anybody to cross the temper of "No Tongue," and Steve felt that his own blood was getting a little warm.
"There's an Indian coming."
"Apache. After the squaws. Don't you hear his whoop? I suppose they'll shoot him first thing, but they won't send a bullet at the girls. They're a bad crowd. Worse than Apache Indians."
"I don't consider them white men."