“No, no. I had forgotten the plan for a moment. She is safe, you say?”
“As the beaver in the iron-tooth trap.”
“And her father knows nothing of the trail—who carried her off—when or where?”
“The red-man leaves his footsteps in the running water; It rolls over them and they are gone.”
“Keep watch of her, then, as you would guard the very apple of your eye, for she is to my heart as the ‘rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley.’” The old hypocrisy would break out from his impious lips, and the deception of a lifetime found utterance even when his soul was unmasked.
“The lodge of the red-man is as safe as the log war-house of the pale-face.”
“Well, you know the plan. In the roughest part of the cañon—even in the ‘Devil’s Gate,’ as the children of the world call it, I will be prepared to rush down upon you and rescue her. She will be grateful, for her heart is warm and loving. Be sure you are at the appointed spot at the right time, and then—”
He had half turned away from his companion, and on looking for the Black Eagle again, found himself alone. Silent as had been the coming of the Indian was his departure. With a mind filled with conflicting emotions, the impostor turned back again toward the encampment. Very little faith had he in the fidelity of Black Eagle, for his own treacherous heart made him suspicious of others, and this, added to the well-known character of the red-man, made him fear the result. Reaching the corral in safety, he crept through the barricades made by the wagons, and was soon sleeping calmly as the most innocent child in the encampment. Looking on that man, you might have fancied that some angel’s prayers had showered poppy leaves around him, and some kind hand had held to his lips a balmy nepenthe against all the trials, cares and passions of life.
When guilt sleeps, then let the pure in heart rejoice. But what a strange anomaly it is, when an evil nature can throw off its corroding fetters—its whirlwind passions, debasing influences, and slumber like untainted childhood—that even the most depraved can for a time change the entire current of their lives, and, touched by the leaden wand, become oblivious of their own wickedness. “To the pure, all things are pure,” and a very paradox it is that sin, when slumbering, can throw off the crushing millstone and wander like innocence joyously among the roses.
The Indian, when he had secured the gold of his infamous patron, and noiselessly departed, struck at once into the middle of the stream, and dropping into the current, swam leisurely down, till he reached the shadow of an overhanging rock. Here he drew his lithe form cautiously up, shook the water from his garments, and then plunged into the thicket.