Edith Van Payne was well acquainted with the general character of the dusky people into whose hands she had fallen. When War Hawk and his daring followers had swooped down upon her, she had, at the first shock, uttered a scream for help. In imagined security it was most sternly startling to feel herself caught up and borne off like the rush of the wind. The crack of a rifle, fired, she doubted not, by one of Martin's men, recalled her, in some measure, to herself. Yet, as she hung across the neck of the warrior's steed, and felt the firm grip of his powerful hand, she might well lapse into a state of semi-unconsciousness. When, at length, she again became fully awake to her position, a long distance had been placed between her and her late home.
When Edith found herself able to catch a confused glimpse of her abductor, she thought she recognized his face. That thought gave her some comfort at least, since it brought her a sense of relief from any present positive danger.
The relations between Martin and the red-skins who surrounded him had been heretofore those of peace. By a rare piece of good luck, at the outset, and afterward by judicious management, he had so secured their apparent good-will that he had been led to look upon them rather as allies. With some of them he had carried on considerable traffic in pelts and robes, and they came often to his ranche. Edith, with a woman's curiosity, had scanned them narrowly, and the most of them had accepted the gaze of her flashing eye in an unconcerned manner. In one or two she detected answering glances of admiration that rather amused her.
In the Indian who was now bearing her away she believed she recognized War Hawk, one of those she had classed as her admirers.
By the time that War Hawk had joined the small party that was awaiting him, Edith had settled in her mind the course which she intended to pursue. Holding herself in constant readiness to accept any opportunity to escape, she would keep up a bold front. She would not waste her strength in vain endeavors, but in the hour of action be brave and resolute.
War Hawk marked the phases of returning consciousness, bewilderment, doubt and final determination. Though he could not fully understand, he could appreciate much of the mental force which faced, in calmness, such a situation. A thrill of pride ran through him at the thought, that he had not been mistaken in the stuff of which his captive was made.
"The White Bird need not fear. War Hawk would not harm. He hopes she will some day neither fear nor wish to fly. She must not flutter now. There is danger to both, and he will not die alone."
"For myself I fear not. I am in no present haste to flutter nor fly. I remember you, sir; I know you. The years that you have passed among the whites—for I know your story—should have taught you better. And you will have to account for this, to not only the white people, but your own tribe. Be sure that both will be ready to bring you to a reckoning."
"War Hawk has a heart to feel, and also is brave to dare. Now be still. Shall he trust you to ride?"
It was during the momentary halt that this conversation took place. She, seeing nothing to be gained by refusing, answered by an affirmative motion of the head. In a moment she was transferred to the back of a mustang, and all the preparations for blinding the trail having already been made before she was fairly settled to a seat, both parties had moved off. Unlearned as she was in wood and prairie-craft, she had no difficulty in perceiving that an effort was being made to deceive those who might follow after. From the smallness of the number of men engaged in the affair, she did not doubt but that more than ever, the red-skins intended to employ stratagem in preference to force in their retreat. They knew, as well as did Edith, that, as the trapping season was just about to open, there was an unusually large number of hunters at Back Load Ranche. Doubtless, also, they believed that pursuit would be immediately made.
For a time the pace was moderate. So slow did they seem to be progressing, that Edith had hopes for a time of hearing the footsteps of Martin and his men thundering on in their wake. She did not believe War Hawk would execute his dark threat, even though she was aware that prisoners had been killed to prevent their rescue or escape.
This slow rate of progress did not long continue. Again they were hastening on, all attempts at concealment of their route being thrown aside. They swept across the prairie for hours. The moon sunk in the west, the night grew darker around them, but with untiring energy they dashed on.
There is no need to chronicle in detail the history of the flight. The night passed; the day broke, and still they pressed ahead. No living human being crossed their path. There were no certain signs of pursuit. Once, from the actions of the Indians, Edith had her attention specially turned backward. She thought she caught, through the marvelously clear prairie atmosphere, a glimpse of three dark objects miles away. It might be a little clump of horsemen—more likely a herd of antelope or elk.
They rode in silence. Neither the captive nor the captors felt much disposition to converse. A feeling of suspense and uncertainty was brooding in the minds of both. Edith, even, began to look forward with a dim yearning for the time to halt to arrive. Weariness began to oppress her, sleep to try at her eyelids.
At length they left the prairie; crossing a shallow stream, they went up its bank for some distance; then, turning away from it, and picking their way for perhaps half a mile over uneven and stony ground, they entered a defile which, under the name of Straight Cañon, led through the rocky range before them. In its gloomy recesses the spirits of Edith sunk again. She would have prayed for a halt, had she not been so unwilling to show weakness. Perhaps it was purely pride—perhaps it was from good judgment. Physically so frail-looking she had the will to brave fatigue. Had she allowed herself to falter at all, the result would have been utter prostration.
War Hawk seemed at length to have an idea that he was, perhaps, tasking his captive beyond her powers of endurance. More than once he scanned her features narrowly. Her naturally pale cheek seemed to be no paler; there was no tremor in her hands; her eyes blazed as brightly as ever.
"If the White Bird is worn out, let her ask and she shall stop. There is no danger. She can rest. But a little further on, we come to a long halt."
Without hesitation she responded:
"I am tired, but can go further."
Straight Cañon was threaded, and a narrow valley lay before them. Beyond another range loomed up darkly.
Crossing the valley they began to ascend a gentle slope. They had not gone far when at some little distance she heard a signal which was immediately answered by one of the Indians beside her. A few moments more, and the halting-place was reached.
Rude as were the accommodations, it was with a feeling of unutterable relief that Edith Van Payne rested her wearied limbs in her little prison-hut. She had scarce noticed the two or three lodges that were scattered around.
How long a halt would be made there she scarce thought it worth while to ask. The by no means unsavory viands that were brought her she put aside for the time almost untasted, only too glad to be at rest and alone.
CHAPTER XII.
"WHEN A WOMAN WILLS THERE'S NOTHING MORE TO SAY."
Daylight waned, and the shadows deepened. In the west the crimson flames that flared over the mountains died away, and the night-stars began to shimmer in their field of blue. A moist, sweet wind came wandering up from the woods. Edith sat within her little prison-house alone.
From time to time she heard voices without; but they came to her as if in a dream. The cold look of the woman had deepened till her face seemed like crystallized water itself.
But in the frigidity of her eyes was a something that was suggestive of unfrozen depths beyond. There was no trace of despair—no sign of intense misery directly arising from her present condition like that which would have fallen upon some women. Only the traces of a former congealment were deepened; that was all. And so, she sat there in silence, thinking. So absorbed in her reverie was she that, apparently, she did not hear a footstep approaching the matting that did duty as a door to her cabin, did not notice the tall and graceful form of War Hawk, as he entered; and only awoke with a start to consciousness at hearing a voice, remarkably sweet and mild for one belonging to a son of the forest and plain, addressing her.
"The White Bird is sad, and the War Hawk would comfort her—yet he is afraid to come before her. She need not fear him. He is a great warrior, but would not harm her for many lodges and much of all that is dear to the heart of a warrior. Can the White Bird look upon the War Hawk with a smile? She will see him as gentle as a fawn, for she is dear to him, and what she says shall be music in his ear."
Edith suffered her eyes to rest steadily upon her Indian admirer, whose assumed gentleness could not disguise his stern, unyielding nature. So the woman thought, though her eye met his unflinching and undaunted.
"The White Bird may be sad, but it is the sadness of years. She asks neither favor nor kindness from the War Hawk. As she has protected herself in the past, so she can in the present and the future. She has been hurt to the heart so long ago that she has no soul for the great chief. Let him go his way and she will go hers."
The ghost of a smile flitted over the face of the brave at this request. This conquest of his had not been altogether bloodless, as the waters of Back Load stream could bear witness.
"The White Bird will grace the wigwam of the War Hawk, and those who have hurt her heart shall be forgotten. If they come near her again, let her speak the word and they shall die. This arm will protect her, and no woman will be more honored among my nation."
Edith looked curiously at the speaker. She measured him with her eye and gauged his soul as he spoke. Perhaps she could see in this dashing red-skin something to admire, even though there was nothing for one of her race to love.
"The White Bird returns her thanks," she said, with a graceful but sweeping courtesy. "The chief's wooing is rough and his grip is like steel, but she knows the warriors of his tribe and their ways, and the War Hawk may well be the greatest among them. He is pleasant to look upon, and the squaw of his lodge will have the eyes of many maidens turned upon her in envy; yet the White Bird, as he has chosen to call her, has no heart for him. Her soul rests with one of her own kindred. Though she has not seen him for years, and will never meet him again, yet her heart will ever beat time to him—even though he knows it not, and little dreams that she still lives. Let the War Hawk seek another; I am not for him."
"The warriors of our tribe are not used to wooing as are the pale-faces, and if War Hawk had sought the fair one he loves as our warriors seek their squaws, she might have thought his grip was stronger yet. He has handled her tenderly and would ever do so; yet she should know that shemustbe his. She is in his hands now, he will have her taken into his tribe; he will guard her and care for her; no other shall be so cherished. He has been in danger from her people and his own for her and life has been lost to win her. Do you think, then, when he loves her so strongly, that he will open his hand when she is in it and let her fly away? No. The White Bird must forget her pale-faced friends—and—" his voice grew harder and colder, and there was a ring of savage fierceness in it as he spoke—"let her dream of her pale-faced lover no longer. If she should see him again it would be to destroy him, for he may not look on your face again and go away living. The War Hawk will let no eyes rest upon his pale-faced squaw in love."
Edith Van Payne realized more than ever the depth to which she had stirred the heart of her dusky-visaged admirer.
"War Hawk, you have wasted time in your pursuit, and you seek what will never, never be yours. There are fair maidens of your own race; woo them and win them—me you never can, by either kind words or by threats. I am protected by the Great Spirit, and neither hope nor fear. Your pursuit may bring you much of evil—to me it can only bring a new experience in life. Do not be deceived. I am, and of reason, a mystery to you, the solution of which it is dangerous for you to attempt."
Perhaps Edith drew herself up rather proudly as she uttered these words, perhaps there was something, too, of scorn mingled with her pride, and unintentionally outcropping in her words and gestures, for War Hawk appeared touched to the quick. He strode a pace forward and raised his hand with a gesture that might indicate either impressiveness or menace. The woman only turned sideways and unflinchingly gazed into his face as he spoke.
"The War Hawk has run many risks for his pale White Bird. He has faced not only the rifles of her friends, but even now he stands against the wishes of his tribe. It is not a light thing for a great chief to choose to bring a pale-face woman into his cabin; but he has seen something of the world, something of the pale-faces, too, and he will accomplish his desires. The White Bird has flown away from her people; they will never see her again. Had they even the courage to follow her, they would not know in which way to turn their steps. The War Hawk will say no more this time; but let her think of what he has said, and perhaps she will yet smile at the coming of the footsteps of the great chief."
"Let not the Blackfoot brave deceive himself. He is not dealing with a helpless squaw of his tribe. I can help myself if forsaken by friends. But I have no fears of that. Their eyes are keen, their limbs are untiring, and they are already on the trail. You may not see them, or hear them; but they will be near you, and when the time comes you will find your White Bird has flitted—if before that the fatal bullet has not stricken you—"
Without then was the sound of a rapidly-approaching horseman. Edith paused in her speech as she heard it, and her savage wooer looked uneasily around him as though he half-feared this hot-haste messenger might be the bearer of unpleasant tidings. The two, listening, heard a distant greeting, the sound of beating hoofs ceased, and then the newcomer, an Indian, inquired for War Hawk. The chief, on hearing this, made an obeisance and left the cabin as quietly as he had entered it.
Edith Van Payne remained alone. With feminine curiosity she listened to see if she could not learn what this messenger had to communicate. She only heard voices speaking in a low and smothered tone, but soon the conversation became more earnest. Then she sought to gain a view of the speakers. Circumstances favored her. When she cast her glance upon them, she saw that preparations for a move of some kind were being made. In front of the second cabin War Hawk was in close conference with several of the braves. Nearer to her, in fact within a few paces of her own wigwam, stood a single savage, holding by the bridles two horses—one of which she recognized at a glance as Whirlwind, the favorite steed of War Hawk.
This man stood with his back toward her, his eyes bent in the direction of the others, evidently more intent upon the conference of his brethren than upon the movements of the captive girl. The great black steed, that stood almost unwatched and within, as it were, arm's length of her, was the fleetest among the fleet horses of the tribe.
Great acts are often the effect of intuition. She tried the fastenings, and found nothing to hinder her egress. A moment, and she had noiselessly glided to the side of Whirlwind. A moment more and she had swung herself upon him, had snatched up the bridle, struck him a sharp blow across the shoulder—and then, like an arrow, had bounded away and was sweeping back toward the mountains through which they had just passed!
The noble steed, to which Edith, practiced horseman that she was, clung so closely and firmly, had not hesitated a moment. He swung at once into a pace that was tremendous. His rider retained her seat with ease, and while urging him to his highest speed, did not for a moment lose her perfect mastery of him. The other horse had wrenched himself loose at the time that Whirlwind started, and, bearing no burden, kept neck and neck with her.
Soon the wild shouts of War Hawk and his allies died away in the distance. She saw an opening in the hills, the defile of a cañon looming dark before her; and into its recesses she plunged without a moment's hesitation. What might be in store for her beyond, in the lonesome darkness, she neither knew, nor thought of, nor cared for. For the time at least, Edith Van Payne was free.
The horses seemed to know the road well. At least they stretched out, plunging on with unfaltering steps into the darkness. Before long the thrill and thrall of her fear wore off, and, as no savage yells or echoing hoof-beats resounded behind her, she coolly settled herself to the work before her. The long twilight had died away, and the moon, nearly full, was up and shining directly through the narrow road, doubling the gloom that lay upon the wooded and rocky slopes on each side,—so that she seemed riding along a path of light laid upon and through a bed of darkness. Her quick eye ranged along this path, now and then diving into the darkness upon either side of her; yet seeing nothing but rocks and trees.
Yet, there was some one near. Not a hundred yards ahead of her, just in the shade of the trees, his wariness all excited by the noise of ringing hoof-strokes, Bill Blaze was sitting in his saddle with eyes strained to catch sight of the person so recklessly approaching. And when he saw the woman bearing down upon him, the riderless horse galloping at her side, he could scarce refrain from a shout of triumph as he recognized in her the object of his search.
"Minks and mushrats!" thought he. "Blam'd ef sheain'tDick Martin's gal. A trump, by mitey! She's cleaned out the hull b'iling; stampeded ther corral, an' 's bringin' the pick o' the lot into camp! Bill Blaze an' her 'll move inter Back Load camp rejoicin'. Waugh!"
When the fast rider was galloping by, she heard at her left a voice, calling to her in what seemed a guarded tone:
"Hullo, thar! Back Load Trace! Dick Martin! Van Payne! Friends. Hullo! hold on, friends!"
She looked hastily toward the spot from which the voice proceeded. A man, evidently a white man and a trapper from his garb, pushed out from the shadows, and rode toward her.
For a moment she hesitated, undecided whether to augment her speed, or to wait for him. The sight of a white man seemed a sign of aid and comfort. Again he hailed her. In the moonlight she could see that he held his right hand up, with the palm open and toward her; a sign of amity. Confidence came to her by inspiration, and without a struggle she allowed him to range up to her side. When he came nearer, she knew that she had never seen him among the Free Trappers who followed the beck of Martin.
"There is little time for talk now. I know not how closely pursuers may be behind us. What we have to say we must say as we gallop on. I see that you know me, and I need not stop to explain."
"That's all right. We've bin on the scout arter ye, an' I war jest rollin' slow into what I thort war blam'd dangerous diggin's. Wouldn't wonder ef you've saved my skulp; an' yer chances won't be any the wuss fur hevin' Bill Blaze to steer yer through this yere diffikilty."
"Do you know this country? I took this route by chance, without knowing whither I was going; and only determined on riding on till I found myself—somewhere."
"Know it like a book. Yer tuk the right; couldn't 'a' showed ye a better myself. Yer driftin' right through Crooked Cañon. You might 'a' taken a shorter cut to reach the other side of the mount'ins; but then, you'd 'a' missed me, sure. How the what you call 'em did yer git on it? Don't 'spose the top-knots is so overflowin' with the milk o' human kindness, thet they've sit ye up in the hoss bissness theirselves!"
Edith, in a few brief words, explained the rapidly-shifting scenes of the evening, passing lightly over her interview with War Hawk, and winding up with:
"And now, as you are fittest to act the part of guide, what do you propose doing?"
Blaze was silent a moment as he revolved in his mind the intelligence that he had received, then answered:
"Yer see, Miss, thet ain't so easy to answer right at onc't. All that excitement wern't fur nothin'. Depend upon it, that scout tumbled acrost somethin' that wern't kalkerlated to fit the'r arrangements. It's more ner likely Martin and his men are comin' up Straight Cañon. Yer see ther's two passes—one on 'em called Straight and t'other Crooked. We're in the Crooked. I tried this yere one acause my luck's the dog-gonedest contrairiest thing you ever see'd, and I allus hev to be just whar I oughtn't, ef I don't want every thing to bu'st up to eternal smash. We can't git out o'here to-night, an' I guess the best thing is to sail along a few hours, an' then stop off till morning. Martin's sure to be somewhar in the neighborhood. Ef he's in this cañon, we'll find him; ef he's in the t'other, he'll keep yer Indian friends up an' busy, an' find us, since I've got a few ideas about them copper-skins, an' when I think 'em overright, I'll let you know what they are. Just now let us make our prettiest time."
In accordance with this, the speed, which had slackened as they conversed, was accelerated, and for a long time the two rode on in silence.
CHAPTER XIII.
A WILD RIDE.
It was morning now in the cañon. Heroes and heroines require sleep—in that they resemble other more commonplace individuals. Perhaps Blaze had slept some; but, wearied as he had been for some days with a constant round of dangerous adventures and hairbreadth escapes, at daylight he was wide awake, ready to face whatever dangers and difficulties the morning might bring. The woman was still as a statue. Her breath came quietly; her slumber was sweet. Blaze sat at a little distance from her, just by the horses, with his rifle close at hand, and looked at his fair charge. There was something in the face of Edith that seemed to be worth studying. As he thought how frail and nerveless she looked in the first pale light of the morning, he was afraid that he had his hands full.
"Blamed ef the little woman looks es though she'd stand carryin'. Kinder sorter 'pears of glass, like. Shouldn't wonder ef she'd break all up into small bits afore I git her a rod. She ain't put up as solid es a Blackfoot squaw. Es fur as the fakilty of transportin' goes, I'd kinder sooner she war. Cur'ous how tastes does differ! Howsomever, Bill Blaze will do his level best, an' ef luck don't run too all-fired rough it may be on the keerds to—blast it, yes! To what? Ef I ain't keerful the copper-skins'll take my ha'r, an' Dick Martin shoot me on sight. As fur that crazy Winkle, I dunno how soon he'll come crawlin' up an' lettin' drive on s'picion that I'm his man. There's a three-cornered state of affairs here, an' no mistake. It's a kinder blessin' maybe, after all, that the gal herself ain't likely to give much trouble." Then he gave a start. "She must 'a' knowed I war thinkin' on her, fur she's got her eyes wide open."
Edith had opened her eyes. She looked around for a moment with an air of quiet bewilderment. Then, apparently comprehending the status of things, she slowly raised her head from the rude pillow; something like the shadow of a blush flitted across her cheek, and she turned to the trapper.
"Well, sir, the morning is here; what do you propose doing?"
"I'd sooner hev Chep Carter draw a bead on me with his finger all ready on the trigger and him dead set on shootin', than answer that question. Blamed ef I knowwhatto do."
"One of us must decide what is to be done, and that right quickly. If you think you can find a way to get beyond our enemies to a place of safety, at Back Load Clearing, or elsewhere, say so. If you think you can not, say so; and I'll try what my wits are worth in this emergency."
Blaze scratched his nose dubiously. It was not that he had not full confidence in himself, but rather it was an unexpectedly amusing thing for this woman, on whose frailty he had but lately been passing mental criticisms, to speak in such short, decisive and self-reliant tones.
"Mebbe the best thing would be to do nothin'. I've know'd persons as war in a box to git out by just sittin' still—an' I've know'd others, that war bound to keep movin', to run right slap onto the biggest kind o' a hornet's nest. In course, I kin find a way out. That's my name—jest what I war made fur. Only, don't push a willin' hoss. Let me roominate a bit."
"Last night you said, wait till morning. It's morning now, and having waited patiently I am anxious to be up and off. Think quickly, then; I'm not a friend to slow going."
"Wal, yer see, ther's several bearin's on this yere. We know whar we've bin, whar we are, but don't know whar we're goin', an' more particularly, who's wantin' to go with us. The end to this trail's a ticklish spot to travel over, that wants daylight or full moonlight to git safely through. Then, I've a couple ov chums somewhars in this region, that I can't leave without seein'. I don't feel afeard of the red-skins. My narves is es steady as a shootin'-match, and they's a sure sign. Ye wouldn't like to stay here a day longer, would ye?"
"I am on the side of safe boldness, whatever that may be. I wish to make my way from this region as quickly as may be convenient and safe!"
"Jest one minnit. This yere's how the land lays: Es I told yer, I've a couple of chums somewhars nigh. We was a-lookin' fur you, ye see, an' there's two other lots on the same biz, an' one on 'em is comin' up Straight Cañon ef there's any faith in signs. The other lot may be goin' on the same road, or we may stumble acrost 'em on our way down. Blest ef I don't wish I knowed which are on this trail an' which on t'other. Now, we'll take a bite o' somethin' to stay our in'ards, an' then be movin'. I hope I've cut it short."
The bite was soon taken, and taken almost in silence. From time to time Edith asked a question, and at length understood that Blaze was of the opinion that Martin and his men had followed in pursuit, and it was their approach that had alarmed the Indians. He told Edith, as briefly as it was in his nature to speak, that War Hawk had not ventured to bring his wished-for bride into the village of his tribe; that, in all probability, save the chance of a stray hunter, there was not an Indian outside of War Hawk's small party, within thirty miles of them. Their journey for the day, he thought, would be one of comparative safety. Their greatest danger lay away out upon the plain, beyond the opening of the cañon; and for that reason he was anxious to augment the strength of their party, even though he felt able, if his "luck held," to carry her through in safety by himself.
Having said this much, in his strange and rather uncouth way, the two sought saddle and Blaze led his charge down the cañon.
They rode along, at first, rapidly and in silence.
Before long Edith became satisfied that Blaze had been wise in thinking that they needed daylight to make their way over that part of their journey. The road, before so smooth, became rougher and rougher, until, finally it seemed to her that it would grow absolutely impassable. Here and there, to the side, she saw gulches and ravines that invited them by their evenness, but her guide resolutely withstood their wooings, and kept straight on. Around and over rocks, across dykes and gullies, up and down they went, till at last, meeting with obstacles more serious than any they had as yet encountered, they dismounted and toiled upward on foot.
"Ef we're spry now," encouraged Blaze, "half an hour more will take us over the roughest, an' then we'll hev level road, clean down to the mouth of the cañon."
Accustomed as Edith was to exertion and exercise, she was heartily glad when the most toilsome part of the road was passed, and, seated once more on Whirlwind, she could pursue her journey with more ease, though Blaze, still on foot, was piloting her carefully.
"Here we come," said he, as, turning a sharp corner, they found themselves at the beginning of a better path. Then in a different tone of voice, in a voice that partook of mingled excitement and uneasiness, he shouted: "The devil! Here he comes!" and, quick as light, firing his rifle, he sprung forward, while the steed of Edith, which had been giving hitherto unnoticed tokens of dissatisfaction, with a scream of fright, gave a mighty plunge, and then, in an uncontrollable frenzy, rushed like a thunderbolt away! As she was borne on in this mad career she heard the voice of Blaze, mingled with the snarl and roar of a wild beast, and, over her shoulder, for a moment, saw him closing in in mortal conflict with a deadly monarch of the mountains—an immense grizzly bear.
Only for a moment the scene flashed across her vision—just long enough to bring a cold chill of terror to her heart, then she was out of sight.
Crooked Cañon did not then belie its name. It swept away to the right with a long curve, and, as she was whirled, breathless and horror-stricken along it, she could catch no glimpse of what might happen to Blaze behind, or any new danger in the way ahead. She saw only the rocks and trees that, circling in, seemed as she advanced an ever-lifting barrier that changed with the shifting sameness and speed of a kaleidoscope. The ring of Whirlwind's hoofs was flung far ahead and behind; it echoed lonesomely in the cañon. And it fell upon listening ears!
A man had halted just in the shade of the scrubby trees that lined the edge of the cañon. He started up at the noise of flying feet, and, still shading himself, gazed in the direction of the sound. What he saw was a woman on a maddened horse, keeping her seat with the skill of a practiced rider, yet being borne with dreadful speed toward the jagged rocks and almost impassable precipices which he knew lay at the entrance, not so very far beyond. As she came nearer he looked again, and then sprung madly forward. Had he been a moment sooner he might have grasped the bridle of the animal. As it was, Whirlwind flitted past him like a dream; in front of him was only the opposite wall of the chasm.
He heard the sound of an exclamation; then the crack of a rifle, and felt a something on his cheek as though a hot iron had been laid there. His arms were dropped by his side; they raised again convulsively. He cast a look around, and, as by instinct, he saw on the crown of the bank before him Charles Endicott, with a smoking rifle and a sneer on his face.
When Blaze came rushing down Crooked Cañon, hard on the trail of Edith, his blood trickling from numberless sharp scratches, though yet strong and nervous, he came suddenly upon a man lying stretched out at full length upon the ground, his face resting upon one of the very tracks of Edith's flying steed. When he had turned him over he found that this man was Harry Winkle. It did not take long to examine his hurts. He was still alive, though partially stunned, and he saw at a glance there was a wound on the side of his face from which the blood was slowly oozing.
When he had noted this much, Winkle gathered himself up, rose to a sitting posture and looked around with a wild stare.
"Right there," he muttered, pointing up the slope, "I sawhim—Endicott! And Edith she went down the cañon. Let me go, I must find her first."
He got to his feet, looked around, caught up his rifle, moved off with a step rapidly growing firmer.
CHAPTER XIV.
HUNTED TO THE VERGE.
On the morning of the day after Edith Van Payne had made her escape from War Hawk, the purlieus of Crooked Cañon were enlivened with a rather more than ordinary number of denizens. Not only Edith and Blaze coming through it, and Winkle and Pompey on the west side, but on the east bank were camped Endicott and his followers. As may be supposed, Endicott himself, though a fair shot and possessed of considerable experience, was not as yet a finished ranger. Any deficiencies in this respect were fully supplied by the attainments of Lariat Dan, the pilot of the party, and his able assistants, Mike Motler and Grizzly Dave. As these men were honest, as times go, they were hardly to be considered trustworthy, and therefore were not admitted into Captain Endicott's confidence. This troubled him very little. He intended to make blind tools of them so long as it was possible. When he could do that no longer—why, they had roughed it on the border long enough to have the gilding pretty well knocked off of the corners of their honesty; and he had but little doubt of being able, if need came, to bend them to his wishes.
In place of Endicott and his followers, perhaps we should say Endicott and his follower. He and Eben Rothven were, at the present time, by themselves, though the other three were almost if not quite within supporting distance. The two, this morning, were holding a council of war. They were ready enough to cast themselves into a desperate adventure, provided they could see, with reasonable clearness, the probable result. Just now, as the future appeared somewhat beclouded, they thought it best to consider a bit. While Dave and his two lieutenants were risking their scalps in Straight Cañon, Endicott and Rothven were discussing whether it was likely to prove a profitable business to venture their own in the same direction.
Rothven of course was opposed to the venture. Perhaps in the beginning, seeing Edith Van Payne carried off before his very face, some little enthusiasm had been kindled in his heart. He was not all bad, and there were some traces of chivalry in his composition. However, this enthusiasm had time to die out; and, having other plans of his own, there is but very little doubt that he would have been very willing to leave the captive to her fate.
In the way of this a difficulty had arisen. Even had Endicott been in a frame of mind to listen to reason, something seemed to tell him that there might be some trouble in calling the other men off the pursuit. They were very good specimens of border ruffians; but, having once been laid on the trail, their blood got up. Not being of the calculating, scheming class, it even amused Endicott to see from day to day how earnest they grew.
The two men walked away from their camp in the heat of their discussion. They forgot their prudence. If there had been a hostile red-skin near, he might have stalked up and shot them both.
A little time having elapsed, as might be expected they got to be cooler, and both having yielded a little, they talked in a more guarded manner. Perhaps it was well for them they did so. Perhaps, on the contrary, it would have been better if they had given some clear and unmistakable manifestation of their presence.
Having become more reasonable, and having expressed their opinions to each other, they separated. At least Endicott remained standing while Rothven went back a few paces.
Standing by himself, with his rifle by his side, and looking into the cañon before him, Endicott was revolving many thoughts in his mind; yet was not so abstracted as to fail to note the conformation of the ground in front of him. The banks of Crooked Cañon, generally almost perpendicular, were here practicable. He did not think it would be much trouble for one to descend into the ravine, or for one to come up. There was a ledge running down in a regular inclined plane of what seemed to be a rather gradual slope. In reality, this slope was more practicable than it looked. Having noticed this natural roadway, he caught himself wondering why it was there; whether it was ever used; and, if so, by whom and for what purpose. As he wondered he endeavored to cast his glance up the cañon. Then he heard a noise in that direction. What a strange coincidence it was that he should be there!
He saw as in a picture part of that which we have detailed in the last chapter.
Then came before him the woman whose abduction had drawn him into this mountain fastness. He saw, as she went streaming by, Harry Winkle start out from among the shrubbery and trees beneath and opposite to him to make a frantic grasp at her rein; he saw, too, the unsuccessfulness of the attempt, with Miss Van Payne's horse sweeping on, leaving Winkle standing right before him.
A throb of hate and mad passion quivered through him from crown to heel. Hate, passion, fear! In the twinkling of an eye his rifle was at his shoulder; one glance along its brown tube and the finger on the trigger did its work. When Charles Endicott and Harry Winkle at last stood face to face, Endicott fired the first shot.
Something within seemed to tell him that shot was going home just as he meant it to go; so that, when Winkle threw up his hands and pitched forward upon his face, he was not at all surprised. A stumbling-block and a cause of fear were out of his path. Martin had warned him of this man, and, acting on that warning, he thought he had put him beyond mischief and the power of working it.
He had no time for reflection though. Winkle might lie there a prey for the vultures and coyotes, since Edith Van Payne had passed.
Like lightning his thoughts drove through his brain. Could she gain the mastery over her frantic steed in time to prevent his plunging into certain death? That was the query. Could he aid her? That came next. He knew if she kept straight on it would be certain death. One last long and sharp curve and she came to the end where her choice of ways was a broken, rugged, rocky descent that lay upon one side, the entrance to it almost undiscoverable, and a sheer precipice.
This he thought as he ran.
As the reader has seen, he was a man of both thought and deed, and very often the deed came first; so he was rushing on his errand before some men would have gotten over the first flush of surprise at the woman's appearance. What he had to do was to stop her;thenit would be time enough to query how she escaped.
Rothven heard the report of the rifle; when he looked around he saw his comrade dashing past him at full speed. He did not know whether or no there was danger, and Endicott vouchsafed him no explanation. When he had waited in terrible suspense for a few moments, he crept cautiously to the spot where he had left his co-conspirator standing, and peering anxiously around him, at length saw Bill Blaze coming down the cañon.
The spirit of darkness, who, they say, loves his own, must have loaned Endicott wings, and guided his footsteps, too, perhaps. Through brake and brush he dashed, and over rocks and down declivities; and when Edith at last was able, just at the very line of deadly danger, to draw rein, and, quivering and breathless, slip from her saddle, there appeared at her side, as if by magic, with a hand on her bridle-rein and a mocking sneer on his lips, the face and form of the last man she desired to see—Charles Endicott.
Breathless as he was, it took some little time for him to be in speaking condition, and while he was recovering his breath she was recovering her consciousness and courage. The very moment she saw him she argued illy from his presence. To be sure, Bill Blaze was in the vicinity; but she could scarcely give a guess at how near, and when she last caught sight of him he had such a work before him that it might well finish him. The corpse of more than one hunter has lain side by side with the body of a dead grizzly.
"Well, friend Edith, we have met again, as I prophesied we would, and I think that now you are fated to hear my story to the end. I have ridden fast and far for a chance to tell my tale, and I doubt if you will be so cruel as not to hear what I would say to you."
She looked at him with a glance of superb scorn.
"Not as fast or as far as I have ridden," she said. "But if you were not in the same field as the fox during the race, I suppose you think you are at least in at the death. Perhaps you are. You might, perchance, claim my dead body—it is certain you shall never have lot or parcel of my living soul."
"Oh, how brave we are! It reminds me of the grand old times when we were both heroes. You think you hate me, do you? Perhaps you do. I know I have done you deadly wrong; but that wrong I am most anxious to right. Your judgment is clear beyond that of average mortals, and I but ask you to exercise it in this case. I am sure that you will, if you treat me fairly, acknowledge that, in all that past, on which you now profess to scorn to look, I acted in a manly, noble way, and as best I could for your best interests. Won't you give me that credit?"
"You!you!Give credit toyou! Why, you abominable, loathsome spawn of the slum and the prison—it was not the way that I was injured, but thethingthat injured me! When I think ofthat, I quiver and glow white from crown to toe. Is it a wonder that I went wild when I realized it? Leave me, leave me before I die of rage!"
She flamed up like a mad tigress. Her eyes flashed on him with a baleful light, and her white, regular teeth shut with an angry click. Only a weapon at hand and she would have shot him dead; only strength, and she would have torn him limb from limb.
And he? He stood and looked her in the eyes without flinching. Only his face was deathly white for a moment, and then there rose a something in his throat that seemed to be choking him as he smothered his anger.
"You want it to be without the gloves, do you? So be it. Here! See here! These hands of mine are tender enough for a backwoodsman, are they not? Yet see where they are half-eaten off at the wrists. Ha! ha! you don't see it—why, they are dropping off from the burning touch of the cursed gyves. Right round there is where they clung. No mark there? Well, there ought to be, for I've worn the fetters. Yes, there's the hand of a jail-bird with the prison smutch on it; and he offers it to you. You don't accept, do you?"
She shrunk away from him with a gesture of horror, yet her eyes were fixed upon his face as though by fascination, while he continued:
"Did you never hear of a martyr to justice? Do you know nothing of the cry, 'Hangsome oneto quiet the public nerves?' Do you know how a name can be murdered, and that, for such a murder, there can be no retributive justice? I loved you once, and I love you now; you loved me once, and you shall love me again. The ex-convict is at your feet; but he woos you in the teeth of danger; he does not forget that. There is little time to be lost in idle play. We have had all the romance years ago; we come now to the stern reality."
She burst out: "I did not love you then, I will not love you now. I have passed beyond the regions of romance, and learned what I would that I had known then. You can not drive me and you dare not kill me."
"Dare I not? Kill! kill! Do you think no killing has even been done? Didn't you hear the ring of my rifle but a moment ago? Force rules the world—andhereI am power! Along Back Load Trace there were weapons ready to come at your call, but here the tables are turned. Within beck are three sturdy ruffians and—apreacher. Not a namby-pamby, white-neckerchiefed nothing, but a man of nerve that can be relied on; yet his handiwork will last in spite of pride or prejudice. Strange to find a blacksmith here—but reserve to the winds!—you shall have a chance to test his workmanship, and see how you like his welding."
As he stepped forward she shrunk back with a hunted look in her eyes. At bay at last! His words fell like the stroke of a knife. And to her there was a terrible suggestiveness in them. At whom had his rifle been aimed a moment ago? She did not doubt him—she feared him. And the fear of her fear was overpowering. Still, she sought to keep a solid front. She would fight gamely to the last.
"Hands off me, sir; you have shown your hand too soon. I am to be wooed, perhaps, but cold as you find me, I like not your love-making. Satan himself would look like an angel of light by your side."
"We are growing nice," he said, with a mocking sneer. "A woman who lives by herself with the angelic trappers of Back Load Trace may well know in what guise the angel of darkness is likely to come. Mine you are, and as mine I claim you."
The moral strength of Edith Van Payne gave way, and left behind a horrible terror. She saw no way of escape but one, and, with a sudden spring, she sought to fling herself upon the animal that had borne her so gallantly from her captors the night before. She sought to do this, but was unsuccessful. A bound, and Endicott was by her side, and had caught her round the waist with a grasp of iron.
"Ho, there, Eben!" he shouted, and she heard footsteps beyond, in the direction in which he had pointed. With a mad fury she caught Endicott by the throat; she writhed from his grasp; she struck him with her clenched hand. Then as, despising her blows as though they were but strokes of a feather, he dashed at her, she gave one wild, piercing and despairing shriek, and, with the rapidity of light, leaped from the brink of the precipice.
And as she leaped the report of three rifles echoed her scream.
CHAPTER XV.
THREE SHOTS—AT LAST!
When Bill Blaze found Harry Winkle lying prone upon the ground, though he looked in every direction with a rapid glance, yet he gave no sign that the sight was unexpected, and when Winkle raised to his feet and staggered off after muttering a couple broken sentences, instead of attempting to stop him, or wasting time in questions, he rapidly extracted from those sentences the very pith of their meaning, and as rapidly decided how he should act.
That Edith Van Payne had gone forward and further on her headlong journey he readily understood; and that no aid of his could avert the danger of a catastrophe at the mouth of the cañon. Unless she succeeded in checking the speed of Whirlwind, before he could succeed in reaching her, her troubles would doubtless be over. That she had done this he hoped, and almost believed. The words of Winkle, however, suggested a new complication.
Charles Endicott was doubtless in the neighborhood, and had fired the shot which he had heard. Having once made out this much he could easily trace the course of events.
When Endicott fired he watched long enough to see Winkle go down, and then dashed across toward the plateau upon which Crooked Cañon debouched. If Edith was safe, she was probably in his hands. Judging from the past he could easily guess what sort of a reception Winkle would meet with if, in his present bewildered state, he came wandering near.
All this Blaze took in by almost one sweep of thought and his resolution was taken, as it were by instinct. He gave but a single glance upward to confirm his opinion of the practicability of the ascent, and then threw himself into the work he fancied he saw before him. Up the steep and jagged side of the cañon he rushed, and then forward directly over the jutting promontory around which Crooked Cañon swept to its point of debouchure. With reckless carelessness he crashed through the bushes and underbrush, intent only on reaching the point for which he was aiming. When he had traversed half the distance he came upon a man standing, leaning against a tree. This man was Rothven. The instinct of the trapper befriended him, since it removed the finger, so hastily thrown there, from a trigger that was seldom pulled in vain. Eben's appearance was not aggressive. On the contrary there was a listlessness about him that told rather of careless waiting than anxious expectancy. Only he was looking in the direction in which the trapper was going. When Endicott had passed him he had somehow comprehended not only what had happened but also what might occur; and preferred not to come on the carpet prematurely. In fact, he cared little to appear at all. The glimpse of Blaze, whom he really did not notice until that worthy had passed him, rather startled him. From his appearance he judged it was one of Martin's men. Then, a feeling of curiosity obtained the mastery over him, and he followed on to see what was in that strange race. He had not taken many paces when he heard the voice of Endicott: "Ho, there, Eben!" and he came in sight of Blaze just as a wild and piercing scream, uttered by a woman's voice, rung in his ears.
He saw Blaze stop suddenly and peer through a rift in the foliage. What the trapper saw must have been exciting, since his eyes dilated, his whole form quivered. That was just for a second; in a second more he stood like a statue, his left foot forward, his left arm extended, his right arm up, his finger on the trigger of the rifle that covered Charles Endicott's heart.
Edith Van Payne had obtained such a place in her uncle's heart that Martin sometimes fancied he must have a dual nature. He forgot that having lapsed from civilization to barbarism, from the circles of refinement to the uncouthness of ultra-frontier life, and having so fully settled to that position as to feel as though 'to the manor born,' that nevertheless, chameleon-like, change of diet might bring him back to some semblance of his old color. He had been going his way while Edith went hers, and the affinity between the two seemed to be but slight. Once or twice he had looked at her queerly, and thought that, perchance, there was a spice of poetical nonsense, of unadulterated and unselfish feeling, yet lingering around him. As often he had cast the thought aside after a moment's revolution. Now, for a day or two, he had had an opportunity to gauge himself, and found that this wilful, wild-eyed niece of his had become, during the gradual developing months of their acquaintance, more dear to him than he could ever have imagined—even away back in younger days that floated by over quieter waters. And, mixed with all this, was the wild, hard pride that close behind him he brought strength and skill and sagacity in no mean force; called out in a moment's warning to follow, to aid, to rescue. He wondered if Edith believed that he was on the trail; he queried if she knew how stout arms grasping trusting weapons were ready to strike in for her at the first opportunity. Somehow, he never doubted of her present safety from any serious harm, or despaired of her ultimate rescue. Strongly self-reliant, he had seen success too often follow his undertakings, to feel faint at heart now.
Two things troubled him immensely. That he should have been deceived at the outset of the pursuit by Indian strategy, and the defection of Endicott and his men. He accounted at first thought for the latter, by the supposition that Endicott's men had seen through the stratagem, and keeping the knowledge to themselves, the party had flown off at a tangent, leaving him, Martin, to follow the false trail. When they met again, if meet they should, he would have a small account to settle with Mr. Charles Endicott.
That meeting was destined to take place rather sooner than he anticipated. By chance he struck the trail made by five men, and, on consultation, was satisfied that it was made by the deserters. He questioned, then, within himself, whether Endicott was not in league with the Indians. Such alliances had been formed before then; and he knew that, if it should be practicable, Endicott would stop at nothing to carry out his end. However that might be, he believed that if he followed that trail, he would most likely come upon traces of Edith. And so, believing this, he desisted from his intention of pushing on to the further end of Straight Cañon, and turned off to one side. After a time, he came to where they had halted the previous night. Here the party had divided, three men going to the north, while the remaining two had turned aside, westward.
Again he followed Endicott, though he sent out a detachment of trusty men in the wake of Lariat Dan. He rode on quietly; he halted suddenly. He saw a sight that brought him from his horse in an instant—Edith Van Payne was struggling in the arms of Charles Endicott. He saw her throw the man off and rush forward; as she leaped over the brink of the precipice, his rifle lay ready for the base of Endicott's brain, and, as her shrill scream echoed and reëchoed through gulch and cañon, his finger tightened on the trigger.
Pompey came slowly back from an unsuccessful search for traces of Edith. Without being seen he had reconnoitered Endicott's camp, and satisfied himself that she was not there. As far as the simple question of Edith Van Payne's rescue, unattached to any other idea, went, it is likely that, he felt very little interest. But he had an interest in whatever concerned his employer and friend, Harry Winkle, and so could bring a second-handed enthusiasm to the pursuit. While he was watching Endicott's camp, he saw Lariat Dan leave it in company with Grizzly Dan and Mike Motler. He recognized all three of those worthies, and at one time had a half-formed notion of revealing himself to them, and attempting to sound them in search of information. When he saw that they turned their faces northward, and started as if on a quest, he altered his mind. Understanding that they were in the employ of the deadly enemy of Harry Winkle, he did not think it advisable to let his presence be known, unless to secure some positive advantage; and he could see none at this present. So he remained concealed among the cedars on thebutte, and let the three go their way. Perhaps an hour later, as he was listlessly returning to find Winkle, the bushes on his left parted, and a man stepped out, and ranged up by his side. A glance told him it was Mike Motler, whom he supposed miles away.
Motler was a quiet, almost surly sort of man, who went his own way and carried his own pelts. His employer, when he had one, seldom heard him speak; but he generally did as he was ordered without useless questions. Therefore he was a valuable man. Sometimes, though, he had an opinion of his own, and acted on it. Wherein he was slightly unreliable. As he pulled trigger quick, and always shot plum-center, he was an unpleasant man to have a difficulty with.
This Motler nodded to Pompey, as though they were going into camp together after a separation of only a couple of hours instead of as many years. Pompey understanding him pretty well, did the same, and casually remarked:
"Whar's Dan?"
"Lookin' fer tame rabbits in a coyote's hole. A-bu'stin' himself to find what ain't thar."
"Whar then?"
"Dunno. Mabbe in heaven. He'd better stay thar. Somethin' rotten on the board an' I've bunched my hand. I kin pass the brick an' lose my ante; durned ef I want to see his blind."
Motler made this speech in detachments, and with a preoccupied air. Pompey listened and walked on. Motler suddenly startled him by the query:
"Whar yer goin'?"
"Nowhar much—camp I guess."
"Ef yer want to gamble, put yer money on a funeral. I feel it in my bones."
"Whose funeral am dat den? I hain't heerd o' no corpse."
"Never you mind. Ther corpus 'll be laid out by the time mourners hes arrove."
The African was not cowardly, but he certainly was a little superstitious. The moody tone of Motler sounded almost prophetic, and he wondered whether it could possibly be his own funeral that was meant. He had seen men rubbed out in unexpected ways and at short notice. He revolved this, in his mind, a few moments, and even questioned whether it would not be best to turn aside and let his unsought companion attend the obsequies by himself. Perhaps he might have done so had the meeting occurred a little sooner; but the catastrophe came quicker than he expected.
First he heard sounds beyond the intervening vail of foliage, and obtained a confused impression that there was that transpiring which needed his attention. Personal fears were flung to the winds, as Mike Motler, quickening his gait, whispered:
"Didn't I tell yer! Wait an' ye'll hear the bell a-ringin. I'm a-holden the rope now."
An ominous peal that bell would give when its rope was pulled! Motler was holding in his hands a twelve-pound rifle!
What occurred after the wall of branches, that finally intervened, was parted, Pompey could never fully comprehend. At least he remembered the shout of a man, a confused struggle, the screams of a woman; then the death-bell at his side tolled once.
Love and fear combined with hate to lend wings to Harry Winkle. His brain cleared and clouded again; but, with the clearing came strength; that remained. He flew down the cañon with a speed that was prodigious. Yet Edith had had a start that would have rendered his efforts unavailing if she had gone straight and unchecked forward. The thought that such would be the case, combining with the burning hate which Endicott's late attempt on his life had aroused, brought back the confusion, and he passed over a few hundred yards of ground without sight or hearing. A regiment of soldiers, a tribe of Indians, might have passed him unheeded. When he came around the last crook in Crooked Cañon, and the straight vista which led to the sheer precipice opened up before him, he came back to life, real and earnest, again. He took in the picture before him—the woman he loved struggling in the arms of the man he hated. He would have shot Endicott on the spot could he have done so without danger to Edith; he brought his rifle to a ready. While he looked, running as he looked, she broke away from the man, gave a great bound, and he heard her despairing cry echoed by the ring of firearms. He did not stop, though, to see who had fired, at whom, or with what effect. When two great master-passions clash, one of them is, for the time at least, ground to the wall. When love and hate became antagonistic in his breast, hate was swept aside like a feather in the wind.
To the right ran the narrow, winding, rugged path by which Blaze had led him up into Crooked Cañon. Down this he darted with his teeth clenched, and his hands, now unincumbered by the useless rifle he had cast aside, extended. He did not even give a cry or utter a moan, but there was a fear of a horror in his eye that seemed wilder than any half-crazed light that had ever shone there in the time of his previous agonies. To the right and left of him the jagged rocks heaved up in great billows, horribly suggestive. He wished himself back in the roaring surf of the previous years. When, half-way down, he came to a ledge that led away and around toward the precipice, visible and accessible by a crevice in the side of the gulch he was descending, he could bear the suspense no more. No need to pause and think if its path was dangerous when once there had taken possession of him the thought that by following it he could sooner catch sight of Edith Van Payne or her mortal remains. Through, out, along, all quiveringly expectant, and ears open for a cry or a groan, sped Winkle.
And so, after the weary, maddening years of separation, alone, suspended, as it were, between earth and heaven, on a narrow footing that seemed all too precarious for life and living mortals, met at the last Harry Winkle and Edith Van Payne!
When from Charles Endicott's arms Edith had rushed to a leap she feared as fatal, there came to her the stupor of falling scarce broken by the crash through the top of the kindly intervening cedar. Bruised and hard shaken, she lay coiled up at the foot of the tree, ready, at a half-conscious movement, to fall still further, even to eternal nothingness, when there crawled toward her a man, through what perils he was passing, or how he was avoiding them he knew not. He only knew that his soul's other half was hanging over certain death, with no other eye than his to see her danger, and no other arm than his to rescue her.
At last! From off the knee of the cedar he drew her, up onto the wider footing of the yet-narrow ledge. Kneeling, with his back against the wall of solid rock, he held in his arms his own long-lost darling! Away above him Martin, Blaze and the others stood, at the brink, peering downward. He heard their shouts like the remembrance of a noise in a dream. The sound of a gentle sigh escaping from her lips drowned all other voices. He clutched her closer, looked at her wan, white cheeks, and, as her wild eyes opened, covered her mouth with kisses. He thought, too, that her lips moved to meet his. For a moment or two longer she lay in his arms cold, nerveless, colorless, almost lifeless. Yet she was the woman he loved!
Consciousness began slowly to return. She hid her face on his breast at its first dawning and slowly gathered strength. When at last she heard the loud beating of his heart she looked up, for the first time forgetting the danger from which she had fled, and the danger from which she had been saved. She saw a face, firm-set, yet beaming, resolution yet happiness penciled thereon. With a scream she made an almost fatal attempt to throw herself from his embrace.
The steel-set arm wound itself tighter around her waist, with steady strength drawing her again closely to its owner's breast.
"Harry! You here! Let me go! Let me go to death; but let me go!"
"Not so, my darling. Here, on my breast you rest. Fate's last bolt has been shot, and I laugh now at the empty quiver. Mine you are, now and forever."
"Never, never! Let me go! I say again—I have said and sworn!"
"And so have I—listen while I swear again."
His face grew darker, his brow wrinkled ominously, while a hard red light shone in his eyes.
"I have sworn that nothing should come between us—nothing, be it mortal or immortal—honor or dishonor—death or perdition. And now I swear—here on the brink of death, where a false step or unguarded movement is utter ruin—that if follies and fancies are to sunder us again, if there is no hope for us together here, then the only thing left is a sudden death for both. You know me well, you ought to believe me completely: now I swear that you stain my soul with a double murder. Mine in life rather, else before another hundred beats of the heart that loves you—you know how wildly—these arms unclasp; but beyond the shadow. Together we henceforth live, or here we two together die! Choose!"
There was a yearning look of a hungry soul in his eyes. He quivered and grew white with suppressed love and horror; but his voice did not falter, and the red heat of a desperate resolve was round him. As he spoke he raised himself to a standing position, and, holding the woman more closely than ever, braced himself for a deadly spring.
She then for a moment was silent; her white face grew whiter; her teeth were set hard and words of violence came surging up to her tongue's end. She strove to utter them; but the whiter, firmer set, more desperate face and the great, struggling soul before her drove them back. There was war in the woman, and the man watching that wild face thought she would die before him.
Then the stronger will conquered; the haggard and strong look broke up; a gleam of submission and unutterable love rolled across her face. She dropped her cheek back upon his shoulder, till her lips almost touched his ear, her arms twined about his neck, and she whispered:
"Harry, my poor darling, we will live for each other!"
THE END
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No. 4—Blue Dick; or, The Yellow Chief's Vengeance. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
No. 5—Nat Wolfe; or, The Gold-Hunters. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
No. 6—The White Tracker; or, The Panther of the Plains. By Edward S. Ellis.
No. 7—The Outlaw's Wife; or, The Valley Ranche. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
No. 8—The Tall Trapper; or, The Flower of the Blackfeet. By Albert W. Aiken.
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No. 20—The B'ar-Killer; or, The Long Trail. By Capt. Comstock.
No. 21—Wild Nat; or, The Cedar Swamp Brigade. By Wm. R. Eyster.
No. 22—Indian Jo, the Guide. By Lewis W. Carson.
No. 23—Old Kent, the Ranger. By Edward S. Ellis.
No. 24—The One-Eyed Trapper. By Capt. Comstock.
No. 25—Godbold, the Spy. A Tale of Arnold's Treason. By N. C. Iron.
No. 26—The Black Ship. By John S. Warner.
No. 27—Single Eye, the Scourge. By Warren St. John.
No. 28—Indian Jim. A Tale of the Minnesota Massacre. By Edward S. Ellis.
No. 29—The Scout. By Warren St. John.
No. 30—Eagle Eye. By W. J. Hamilton.
No. 31—The Mystic Canoe. A Romance of a Hundred Years Ago. By Edward S. Ellis.
No. 32—The Golden Harpoon; or, Lost Among the Floes. By Roger Starbuck.
No. 33—The Scalp King. By Lieut. Ned Hunter.
No. 34—Old Lute, the Indian-fighter; or, The Den in the Hills. By E. W. Archer.
No. 35—Rainbolt, the Ranger; or, The Demon of the Mountain. By Oll Coomes.
No. 36—The Boy Pioneer. By Edward S. Ellis.
No. 37—Carson, the Guide; or, the Perils of the Frontier. By Lieut. J. H. Randolph.
No. 38—The Heart Eater; or, The Prophet of the Hollow Hill. By Harry Hazard.
No. 39—Wetzel, the Scout; or, The Captive of the Wilderness. By Boynton Belknap.
No. 40—The Huge Hunter; or, The Steam Man of the Prairies. By Ed. S. Ellis.
No. 41—Wild Nat, the Trapper. By Paul Prescott.
No. 42—Lynx-cap; or, The Sioux Track. By Paul Bibbs.
No. 43—The White Outlaw; or, The Bandit Brigand. By Harry Hazard.
No. 44—The Dog Trailer. By Frederick Dewey.
No. 45—The Elk King. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
No. 46—Adrian, the Pilot. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.
No. 47—The Man-hunter. By Maro O. Rolfe.
No. 48—The Phantom Tracker. By Frederick Dewey.
No. 49—Moccasin Bill. By Paul Bibbs.
No. 50—The Wolf Queen. By Captain Charles Howard.
No. 51—Tom Hawk, the Trailer. By Lewis Jay Swift.
No. 52—The Mad Chief. By Captain Chas. Howard.
No. 53—The Black Wolf. By Edwin E. Ewing.
No. 54—Arkansas Jack. By Harry Hazard.
No. 55—Blackbeard. By Paul Bibbs.
No. 56—The River Rifles. By Billex Muller.
No. 57—Hunter Ham. By J. Edgar Iliff.
No. 58—Cloudwood; or, The Daughter of the Wilderness. By J. M. Merrill.
No. 59—The Texas Hawks. By Joe E. Badger, Jr. Ready
No. 60—Merciless Mat. By Capt. Chas. Howard. Ready Oct. 10th.
No. 61—Mad Anthony's Scouts. By Emerson Rodman. Ready
No. 62—The Luckless Trapper; or, The Haunted Hunter. By William R. Eyster. Ready
No. 63—The Florida Scout; or, The Princess of the Everglades. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. Ready Nov. 21st.
Beadle's Dime Pocket Novelsare always in print and for sale by all newsdealers; or will be sent, post-paid, to any address; single numbers, ten cents; six months (13 Nos.) $1.25; one year (26 Nos.) $2.50. Address,
BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.