Mrs. Hay did not blame Mrs. Dade at that moment for hating the girl, if
hate she did. She could have shaken her, hard and well, herself, yet was
utterly nonplussed to find that Nanette cared next to nothing how badly
Field was wounded. What she seemed to care to know was about the
casualties among the Sioux, and, now that Stabber's village, the last
living trace of it, old men, squaws, children, pappooses, ponies and
puppies and other living creatures had, between two days, been whisked
away to the hills, there were no more Indians close at hand to whisper
information.
She was glad Nanette was gone, because Field, wounded and present, would
have advantages over possible suitors absent on campaign--because all
the women and a few of the men were now against her, and because from
some vague, intangible symptoms, Mrs. Hay had satisfied herself that
there was something in the wind Nanette was hiding even from her--her
benefactress, her best friend, and it seemed like cold-blooded
treachery. Hay had for two days been disturbed, nervous and unhappy, yet
would not tell her why. He had been cross-questioning Pete, "Crapaud"
and other employees, and searching about the premises in a way that
excited curiosity and even resentment, for the explanation he gave was
utterly inadequate.
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