“Has my pale brother been trying strength with the giant bear of the mountains?” was the evasive question, as the Indian glanced at the torn garments of the Mormon.
“No; my horse fell with me—that’s all. But the girl?”
“The trail upon the steep hillside is not for the warriors of the pale-face. The Manitou gave them to his red children. Their foot is sure—their horses trained to the rugged path.”
“Well, well, I’ve no time for words about it. Have you brought the girl as you promised?”
“Has the pale-face brought the yellow dust that his people have made a great Manitou? Has he remembered the gold?”
“Yes; let me but get the girl into my power, and it shall be yours.”
“Will he let his red brother look upon the gold? It is bright as the sun, and he longs to see it shine.”
“When I see the girl, then—”
“Look!” and the Indian led him forward a few steps and pointed into a little valley, apart from the main one, and closely screened by high rocks.
“Surely it is the Lily of the Valley,” exclaimed the Mormon, clasping his hands. “Mounted upon a milk-white steed, she cometh to gladden the soul, as sweet waters doth the thirsty earth. She is fair as the Cedar of Lebanon, and the—”