"Right out of a Remington black-and-white," she shrilled in Ruth
Fielding's ear.

The sight actually jolted Ruth's mind away from the fright which had
overwhelmed it. She stared at the person indicated with growing interest
as well as appreciation of the picturesque figure she made. She was an
Indian girl in the gala costume of her tribe, feather head-dress and
all. Or, perhaps, one would better say she was dressed as the white man
expects an Indian to dress when on exhibition.

But aside from her dress, which was most attractive, the girl herself
held Ruth's keen interest. Despite her high cheekbones and the dusky
copper color of her skin, this strange girl's features were handsome.
There was pride expressed in them--pride and firmness and, withal, a
certain sadness that added not a little to the charm of the Indian
girl's visage.

"What a strange person!" murmured Helen Cameron.

"She is pretty," announced the assured Mercy Curtis, who always held her
own opinion to be right on any subject. "One brunette never does like
another," and she made a little face at Helen.

"Listen!" commanded Jennie Stone. "What does she say?"

The Indian girl spoke again, and this time they all heard her.

"Is the white lady injured, Conlon?"