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Updated: May 20, 2025
So she moved silently away and passed to the old kitchen to prepare his food. Marcel sat on. He was thinking, thinking hard. But not in any direction that An-ina would have guessed. For once there was confusion of thought and feeling that was quite foreign to his nature. He was thinking of Keeko, he was thinking of Uncle Steve, and he was thinking of An-ina.
"This his game," she said. "He mak' great hunter," she added with simple pride. "An-ina tell him gophers bad much. So he say Marcel hunt 'em. Him kill 'em. Him say Uncle Steve say all things bad must be kill." "He still thinks of Uncle Steve?" The enquiry came with a smile. But the man had withdrawn his gaze from the distant child, and was earnestly searching the woman's smiling face.
The frank simplicity of it all left the white man searching for words to express his gratitude. But complete and utter helplessness supervened. "Thanks, An-ina," he articulated. And he dared not trust himself to more. Diversion came at a moment when he was never more thankful for it. The shrill treble of the boy reached them across the stretch of tawny, summer grass. "Uncle Stee-e-ve!
An-ina was speaking in the tongue native to the old man, who was replying in his monosyllabic fashion while he kept all his regard for the stern-eyed white man, who, the squaw was explaining, represented all the unlimited power of the white peoples. Steve waited in patience for the completion of these necessary preliminaries, and acted his part with the confidence of wide experience.
Him look for dead white man by the big water. Yes. Him big chief say, 'White man officer? Him not know this man. Who? An-ina say much plenty. Big chief all go mad. Oh, much angry. Then An-ina mak big talk plenty. She say, 'Big Chief not mak big talk, then boss white man officer of Great White Chief come kill up all Indian man. Big chief very old. Him all 'fraid.
"But An-ina sezes ther' is." "An-ina's a squaw." "'Ess." "Well, after long time this funny little fellow finds his new Auntie, and he loves his little cousin right away, and he has such a bully time with her. They play together. Such games.
And if you've the guts I reckon you have, then you'll help me to do the thing that's going to shut the gates of the hell that's opened to swallow me up." "You mean the care of the boy and An-ina?" "Till I get back. Then you'll hand 'em over without a kick." Ross ran his great fingers through his hair, while he sought the last glow of sunset for inspiration.
Life was more than good to An-ina just now. She was young. She was thrilling with the wild emotions of her untamed blood. She was an Indian of the finest ancestry, but more than all she was a devoted woman. She had lost a mistress whom she had loved, and a master whom she had been glad to serve.
She had summoned him at once to her sick room through An-ina. And in her greeting had briefly told him of the trouble which had befallen her. "Maybe you'll think it queer my receiving you this way," she said, in a tired voice, "but I can't just help myself. You see, I can't move hand or foot." Then a pitiful smile crept into the wistful eyes. "It happened two weeks ago. Oh, those two weeks.
Then he added: "You always think of that, An-ina. No," he went on with a shake of the head. "I remember riding Uncle Steve's back. Seems it was for days and days. I sort of remember sitting around and watching him while he looked down at a pair of feet like raw meat, with the flies all trying to settle on them. The sort of way flies have. Then there were his eyes.
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