He did not interrupt her.  With hand clutched at her breast she went on.

“I waited—­until all were out there.  They kept me in my room and left Marcee—­the old Indian woman—­to watch me.  When they were all out to see Wapi off, I struck her over the head with the end of Nisikoos’ rifle.  Maybe she is dead.  Tara is out there.  I know where to find him when it is dark.  I will make up a pack and within an hour we must go.  If Hauck comes to your room before then, or Brokaw, kill him with the knife, Sakewawin!  If you don’t—­they will kill you!”

Her voice broke in a gasp that was like a sob.  He struggled to rise; stood swaying before her, his legs unsteady as stilts under him.

“My gun, Marge—­my pistol!” he demanded, trying to reach out his arms.  “If I had them now....”

“They must have taken them,” she interrupted.  “But I have Nisikoos’ rifle, Sakewawin!  Oh—­I must hurry!  They won’t come to my room, and Marcee is perhaps dead.  As soon as it is dark I will unlock your door.  And if one of them comes before then, you must kill him!  You must!  You must!”

She backed to the door, and now she opened it, and was gone.  A key clicked in the lock again, he heard her swift footsteps in the hall, and a second door opened and closed.

For a few minutes he stood without moving, a little dazed by the suddenness with which she had left him.  She had not been in his room more than a minute or two.  She had been terribly frightened, terribly afraid of discovery before her work was done.  On the floor at his feet lay the knife. That was why she had come, that was what she had brought him!  His blood began to tingle.  He could feel it resuming its course through his numbed legs and arms, and he leaned over slowly, half afraid that he would lose his balance, and picked up the weapon.  The chanting of Wapi and his people was only a distant murmur; through the high window came the sound of returning voices—­voices of white men.

There swept through him the wild thrill of the thought that once more the fight was up to him.  Marge O’Doone had done her part.  She had struck down the Indian woman Hauck had placed over her as a guard—­had escaped from her room, unbound him, and put a knife into his hands.  The rest was his fight.  How long before Brokaw or Hauck would come?  Would they give him time to get the blood running through his body again?  Time to gain strength to use his freedom—­and the knife?  He began walking slowly across the room, pumping his arms up and down.  His strength returned quickly.  He went to the pail of water and drank deeply with a consuming thirst.  The water refreshed him, and he paced back and forth more and more swiftly, until he was breathing steadily and he could harden his muscles and knot his fists.  He looked at the knife.  It was a horrible necessity—­the burying of that steel in a man’s back, or his heart!  Was there no other way, he wondered?  He began searching the room.  Why hadn’t Marge brought him a club instead of a knife, or at least a club along with the knife?  To club a man down, even when he was intent on murder, wasn’t like letting out his life in a gush of blood.