Fifteen minutes passed. It was a hot day in late June, and Ruel wiped his brow repeatedly as he paced to and fro before the tent. The Indian, he knew, would bear no interference, and her knowledge and experience were invaluable.
“SHE HAD ONE PAPPOOSE IN HER ARMS.”
“Any signs of life?” he asked aloud, when he could bear the suspense no longer.
Kittie put a white face out between the hangings, and said “No.”
Twenty minutes. A thrush from a thicket near by, sang a few notes, and stopped. The air went up in little waves of heat, from the tree-tops. It was very still.
Suddenly there was an exclamation inside the tent; both girls cried out at once, and were hushed by the guttural tones of the Indian.
Another long silence, almost unendurable to the big-hearted man outside, who felt in some way accountable for what had happened.
He hid his face in his hands, and walked slowly off toward the thicket where the thrush had sung.
Again there was a stir within the tent.