WHITHER EDITH WENT.
The average American Indian is not a charming object. Treacherous, bloodthirsty, cunning, he seems to need but the opportunity to show himself a monster. Much may be said in extenuation; but, there will still remain behind the hard array of facts. Was the author writing for Cheyenne, Crow, Blackfoot, Comanche or Apache readers, perhaps he might say the same of the white man, and the statement, on their limited personal knowledge, be readily accepted. In the one case it is to be hoped that the exceptions are in reality the rule, while in the other we fear they prove it.
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.