Qui-tha nodded.
"You knew that, yet you brought him a bottle of whiskey and got drunk with him and shot him in the leg when you fought."
The old chief turned inquiringly toward Qui-tha. Again Qui-tha nodded grimly.
"And you knew that the infernal drunken row you kicked up that night frightened the little girl so that she ran away into the desert where a rattle snake bit her and she died--died all alone at night, in the desert."
A look of complete horror rose in Qui-tha's eyes. "No!" he gasped.
"Ai! Ai! Ai!" cried the squaw who had given Felicia the pottery. "Poor little papoose! She was sweet, like her," pointing to Charley.
Then there was silence in the camp, all eyes turned on the old chief. Indians are great lovers of children. Their tenderness to them never fails, be they white or red or black.
"Dick heap sick?" asked old Rabbit Tail, finally.
"Yes, but he'll get well. He's at Doc Evans's house in Archer's."
"Did you tell the sheriff?" continued the chief.
"No," replied Roger. "Charley wouldn't let me."
Rabbit Tail turned to Charley. "Why?" he queried, laconically Charley bit her lip. "The whites brought whiskey to the Indians in the first place," she said.
There was another silence. Then Roger began again. "Dick has been sick a long time now and he can't work much when he gets back. You know his alfalfa field?"
"Yes," said the chief.
"Well, Dick has been away and his water pump is no good and the alfalfa is dying. If we don't get water on it it will die. If it dies, then Charley will have much trouble, bad trouble. They owe Hackett much money because of Dick's drinking. So they can't get food unless they pay that money. They can't pay that money unless they sell much alfalfa. See?"
Qui-tha and Rabbit Tail both nodded.
"Now, I know you Indians don't believe in work. But if I can dig a big well for Charley and move my engine up to the adobe, I can get plenty of water on the alfalfa. It would take twenty Indians one week to move my plant. Rabbit Tail, you supply gangs sometimes for government work. Get Charley a gang for one week."
"You whites," said Rabbit Tail, "work heap hard for what you get--huh? If you live like Injun, no worry 'bout food, go out shoot 'em. No worry 'bout bed. Sleep in sand, huh?"
Roger nodded. "I think many times you're right, Rabbit Tail. But it's too late now. Whites have lived like this too many hundreds of years. They can't change to your ways any more than Indians can change to white ways."