As the Indian staggered forward, Siena recognized the robe of silver fox and marten, his gift to Emihiyah. He laughed in mockery. It was a Cree trick. Tillimanqua had led the pursuit disguised in his sister’s robe. Baroma would find his son dead on the Great Slave’s trail.
“Siena!” came the strange, low cry.
It was the cry that had haunted him like the voice on the wind. He leaped as a bounding deer.
OUT OF THE GRAY FOG BURNED DUSKY EYES HALF VEILED BY DUSKY HAIR—“EMIHIYAH COMES,” SHE SAID. “SIENA WAITS,” HE REPLIED
Out of the gray fog burned dusky eyes half-veiled by dusky hair, and little hands that he knew wavered as fluttering leaves. “Emihiyah comes,” she said.
“Siena waits,” he replied.
Far to the northward he led his bride and his people, far beyond the old home on the green-white, thundering Athabasca, god-forsaken river; and there, on the lonely shores of an inland sea, he fathered the Great Slave Tribe.