Chapter 32

An old Indian crone peered out beneath the crooked elbow of the ruffian in the doorway, she who had been dolorously singing. With a scream, she thrust out her skinny old arm, pointing it at Red Roane. “He dies!” she screamed. “We want his soul!” Another woman, hidden, moaning within the hut; a woman in her travail. New life from the womb--a life must die! I grasped the arm of Red Roane. “Come away!” I said, “Come away from these mad witches!” In three steps that gray-green hovel was hidden in the cypresses. A dream…