It was so strange, so utterly incomprehensible, that her mind was in a whirl. She knew something about Indians and their ways. They might capture the daughter of a great and rich man and hold her for ransom. Or an Indian might even kidnap a woman with whom he was in love. But she was certain that neither of these motives appeared here.
She was sure that she never had seen this monster of an Indian before. And as they tore on through the night and the dawn began to come nearer, she looked more curiously at her captor. No, she never had seen that homely profile before.
When day came, they pitched camp—or rather made a short halt—at the bank of a stream. There the saddles were changed, the used horses turned into the herd, and the next best mounts requisitioned. In this way, they would shift the saddles half a dozen times in twenty-four hours of work, reusing the horses in turn. Standing Bull, regarding his captive, was amazed to find that she seemed to be bearing up against fatigue and fear very well indeed. There was more color in her face than there had been when she wept in the kitchen of the house of Samuel Brett.
He wished that he possessed sufficient English to pronounce the name of the great white medicine man to whom he was bringing her. But he did not even know that name in the first place.
She made no trouble, however. Her grave, blue eyes never stared at them. She seemed only watchful to do what was wanted of her. And Standing Bull wondered greatly. She acted, in fact, almost as an Indian girl would have acted at such a time as this.
All the day they rode on under a gray sky. There were only the halts for the changing of saddles, and to eat a little dried meat at the same time. The girl was no longer tied to her horse, but the pony she rode was tethered to the saddle of Standing Bull. He watched her begin to droop as the afternoon wore away. When they at last halted on the edge of night, she almost fell from the saddle.
“She must sleep,” said Red Shirt uneasily, and looked toward the northwestern horizon.
“She must sleep,” answered Standing Bull. “But first she must eat.”
She would have refused food. He commanded with a savage growl, and she choked down a few morsels in fear. Then, wrapped in a robe, she slept. The Indians already were sleeping, except Standing Bull. He needed no sleep. His heart was full of glory for the thing that he had done. He began to frame in his mind the song he would sing when he reappeared in the Cheyenne village. The notes of the chant ached in his throat and the sweetness of fame among his fellows made the head of Standing Bull sway a little from side to side.
The sky cleared during the night. When the clouds had blown down to the horizon, he roused his sleepy command. He touched the girl, and she sprang to her feet with a faint cry. In two minutes they were on their way again.
So they pressed on until they were three days from Fort Kendry, and trouble for the first time overtook them. Had it not been for Nancy Brett, they could have made somewhat better time, and yet the horses hardly could have stood up to more work. They were growing very thin. Sometimes at a halt many of them were too weary to begin to graze.
And while the party was in this condition, on the pale verge of morning, saddling for the day’s ride, Yellow Man was seen to throw up his hands, whirl, and fall without sound, while the sharp, small clang of a rifle struck at their ears. Glancing wildly about them, they could see a wisp of smoke rising above a small cluster of shrubs and trees nearby.
“Take two men,” said Standing Bull to Red Shirt. “Take three if you will, and go back. If there is one man, bring us his scalp. If there are more, skirmish and delay them.”
Red Shirt went instantly to execute the order. With Standing Bull and the girl remained only that capable young brave, Rushing Wind. And the three of them, with the larger body of the horses, struck away across the prairie. As they did so, they saw Red Shirt’s party approach the trees in a wide circle, and out from the trees rode a man on a fine, gray horse.
Roger Lincoln!
They knew well that it was he the instant the gray began to run. It was not likely that two gray horses on that prairie had the long and flowing gallop of the mare, Comanche. She drifted easily away toward the north, with the party of Red Shirt and his three braves hopelessly laboring in the rear.
Glancing keenly at the girl, Standing Bull made sure by the light in her eye that she, too, had recognized the rescuer and that hope had come to her. So strong was that hope that it enabled her to endure a whole day of savage riding, and as the evening drew near they knew that the Cheyenne village was not far away. So great had their speed been that the party sent back to block Roger Lincoln had not been sighted again since first they disappeared. Perhaps the gray mare had failed, after all, and the four warriors now were blockading Roger Lincoln in some nest of rocks.
So hoped Standing Bull, and smiled at the thought. He talked with Rushing Wind as they changed saddles for the last time. Yellow Man had fulfilled his weird dream of the night before. He was dead, but his body, lashed to a pony’s back, was being brought back to his family. Not two hours of steady riding lay before them. And if the girl collapsed, they could tie her to her saddle and finish the ride at any rate, like a whirlwind covering the plains.
So, as they made the change of saddles, they helped her to her new mount. She was a dead weight in their hands. With sunken head and lips compressed she sat the saddle, both hands clinging feebly to the pommel.
“Tie her now in her place,” suggested Rushing Wind. “She is very weak.”
It was done at once, and, while Standing Bull made sure that the fastenings were secure, he heard an excited call from Rushing Wind.
On the northern horizon, clearly seen against the red of the sunset sky, there was a flash as of silver, and, when Standing Bull looked more closely, he made out a horseman coming steadily toward them.
Roger Lincoln! Or was it one of the Cheyennes who, having killed Lincoln, had sent back one of their number on the captured horse to give the news to the village and bring out food and a medicine man to the wounded of the party?
So muttered Standing Bull, but Rushing Wind cried excitedly: “I tell you I can see that it is the white man! I can see the paleness of his long hair about his shoulders even at this distance. But what has become of the others?”
“He has dodged them,” said Standing Bull gloomily. “Or else . . .”
“Or else he has killed them!” exclaimed Rushing Wind. “He has killed them, Standing Bull. I feel that they are dead men and that we never shall look on them again. Shall we go back to face him?”
“He has great medicine in his rifle,” said Standing Bull in grave thought, “but I would not run away from any single warrior. Nevertheless, it is not for us to think of ourselves. We are working to bring happiness to White Thunder, and through him to the entire tribe. Is it true?”
“That is true,” admitted Rushing Wind, still staring at the far distant rider.
“Let us finish that work,” said Standing Bull. “Afterward we may be able to ride out and find Roger Lincoln on the war trail. I hope so. In his death there would be enough fame to make ten braves happy. Now let us ride. Pray to the wind to help on our horses, or the white man will send our souls where he has sent all five of our companions before us. Ride, Rushing Wind, and call on the ghosts of our fathers to make the legs of our horses strong.”
By the time they were in the saddle, the form of Roger Lincoln was beginning to grow more and more distinct until, even in that half light, they were sure of the blond hair about his shoulders.