The Indian made a sign to the little girl to remain with the horse;
then he glided forward, holding somewhat ostentatiously, a filled
pipe in his extended hand. He had evidently come to knit his soul
to that of his white brother while the smoke from their pipes
mingled on the quiet air, forming a frail and uncertain monument to
the spirit of peace.

"Was it you that left a pipe and tobacco on my stove two years ago?"
Willock asked abruptly.

"Yes. You got it? We will smoke." He seated himself gravely on
the ground.

Willock went into the cabin, and brought out the clay pipe. They
smoked. Willock cast covert glances toward the girl. She stood
slim and straight, her face rigid, her eyes fixed on the horse whose
halter she held. Her limbs were bare and a blanket that descended
to her knees seemed her only garment. The face of the sleeping
child of five was the same, however, as this of the seven-year-old
maid, except that it had grown more beautiful; the wealth of glowing
brown hair made amends for all poverty of attire.

Willock was wonderfully moved; so much so that his manner was harsh,
his voice gruff in the extreme. "What are you going to do with that
girl?" he demanded.

"You take her?" inquired the chief passively.

"Yes--I take her."