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 she must be 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 she ain't Dick 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 over right, 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.