It was not Pemaou. It was the Ottawa girl Singing Arrow.
I did not drop my knife. My thought was of decoy and ambush, which was
no credit to me, for this girl had been faithful before. But we train
ourselves not to trust an Indian except of necessity.
"Are you alone?" I demanded.
She nodded, pressing her lips together and dimpling. She feared me as
little as a kitten might.
"I came to the Pottawatamie camp just after you left," she volunteered.
And then I laughed, laughed as I had not done in days. So this was the
quarry that I had been stalking! I had been under a long tension, and
it was suddenly comfortable to be ridiculous. I sat down and laughed
again.
"Are you following Pierre?" I asked, sobering, and trying to be stern.
But she put her head sidewise and considered me. She looked like a
squirrel about to crack a nut.
"A hare may track a stag," she announced judicially. "I have followed
you. My back is bent like a worm with the aching of it, but I came
faster than a man. I have this for you," and fumbling in her blouse
she brought out a bulky packet addressed with my name.
I took it with the marvel that a child takes a sleight-of-hand toy and
stared at the seal.
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