It was what I most wanted, and so relieved was I at finding it, that I
could not forbear a word of reproof.
"I told you to keep away from Singing Arrow!" I stormed at Pierre, like
the mother who stops to shake her recovered child before she cries over
it.
Pierre grinned shamefacedly, but Singing Arrow smiled like May sunlight.
"Has monsieur been looking for me?" she asked. "He carries the wet red
clay that lies in front of my wigwam," and she pointed a curving finger
at my boots.
I could have embraced her. If I had no wit, she had it and to spare.
I made up my mind, then and there, to trust her. It was a mad chance,
but a good gamester likes a dangerous throw.
"Come here, Singing Arrow," I commanded, and I would have led her down
the beach out of earshot.
She followed but a step or two, then halted, balancing herself on one
foot like a meditative crane. "I want sunset-head to go too," she
insisted, darting her covert bird-glance at Pierre, and when I would
have objected, I saw her mouth pinch together, and I remembered that no
Indian will submit to force. So I let her have her will.
We held short council: Pierre the peasant, Singing Arrow the squaw, and
I, the Seignior de Montlivet.
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