“That I might know what my brothers wished to know.”

“And you think he told you all these things truly?” doubted Sam.

She looked directly at him.

“Little Father,” said she slowly, “long has this man wanted me to live in his wigwam.  For that he joined Haukemah’s band;—­because I was there.  I have been good in his eyes.  Never have I given him favour.  My favour always would unlock his heart.”

“But are you sure he spoke truth,” objected Sam.  “You have never looked kindly on him.  You left Haukemah’s band to go with us.  How could he trust you?”

She looked at him bravely.

“Little Father,” she replied, “there is a moment when man and woman trust utterly, and when they say truly what lies in their hearts.”

“Good God!” cried Sam, in English.

“It was the only way,” she answered the spirit of his interjection.  “I had known before only his forked tongue.”

“Why did you do this, girl?  You had no right, no reason.  You should have consulted us.”

“Little Father,” said she, “the people of your race are a strange people.  I do not understand them.  An evil is done them, and they pass it by; a good is done them, and they do not remember.  With us it is different.  Always in our hearts dwell the good and the evil.”

“What good have we done to you?” asked Sam.

“Jibiwanisi has looked into my heart,” she replied, lapsing into the Indian rhetoric of deep emotion.  “He has looked into my heart, and in the doorway he blots out the world.  At the first I wanted to die when he would not look on me with favour.  Then I wanted to die when I thought I should never possess him.  Now it is enough that I am near him, that I lay his fire, and cook his tea and caribou, that I follow his trail, that I am ready when he needs me, that I can raise my eyes and see him breaking the trail.  For when I look up at him the sun breaks out, and the snow shines, and there is a light under the trees.  And when I think of raising my eyes, and he not there, nor anywhere near, then my heart freezes, Little Father, freezes with loneliness.”

Abruptly she arose, casting aside the blanket and stretching her arms rigid above her head.  Then with equal abruptness she stooped, caught up her bedding, spread it out, and lay down stolidly to rest, turning her back to both the white men.

But Sam remained crouched by the fire until the morning hour of waking, staring with troubled eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Later in the morning Dick attempted some remark on the subject of the girl’s presence.  At once Sam whirled on him with a gust of passion utterly unlike his ordinary deliberate and even habit.

“Shut your damned mouth!” he fairly shouted.

Dick whistled in what he thought was a new enlightenment, and followed literally the other’s vigorous advice.  Not a syllable did he utter for an hour, by which time the sun had risen.  Then he stopped and pointed to a fresh trail converging into that they were following.