“The way may be long and the trail winding. When the girl of the pale-faces is ready, we will go.”
“Ready? Now, this instant. Come, I have no fear.” She placed her hand in his as she spoke, and smiled as he clasped it in his hard palm.
For a single moment only the Indian held it in his tight grasp, then he uplifted it slightly as if he would have raised it to his lips, but with a grave sadness in his eyes he checked the impulse, slowly releasing his grasp, and turned toward his horse that stood ready prepared for the march. He offered her his foot as a step from which she could mount the horse.
What a game of living cross-purposes was playing then in the mountains? Waltermyer, a white man, had become the protector and guide of an Indian woman. Osse ’o, a Dacotah, was performing the some services for a white girl. Black Eagle and his followers were hunting for Esther, and the Mormon seeking for them. All traveling, in reality, blind paths—pursuing the end of a trail that was shifting every hour—seeking each other as a baffled man might search for a name written in sand on the sea-shore.
With his hand upon the bridle-rein, the Indian walked almost by Esther’s side, cheering and guiding the horse. When the narrow trail caused her to shrink back from the dizzy brink on one side until she brushed the perpendicular wall of rocks on the other—when the descent became steep—when the path was cumbered with loose stones—when an overhanging branch threatened to sweep her from the saddle—when the rocky bed of the arroya was deep and the current strong—when more than usual danger lurked around her in any form, he pressed still nearer, warned her of the danger in deep, earnest whispers—whispers whose undertone was more like the lower notes of a flute than a human voice—and held her firmly with his strong arm.
All that is beautiful in human tenderness was concentrated in these guarding cares. In her gratitude and her admiration, Esther forgot every thing which might have revolted her at another time.
“See!” said Osse ’o, as he paused to breathe his steed for a moment. “Far off toward the setting sun are your father’s wagons—the pale-man’s traveling home. Like little rifts of snow they lie whitely in the distance.”
“So near? Let us hurry on. Each moment seems a lifetime till I reach my father.”
“The trail winds round the mountains like a serpent, and even this good horse must rest. Within an arrow’s shot below, though it takes miles to reach it, is a huge rock level at the top. A thousand warriors could camp upon it, and yet find room for more. There I will build a fire and rest. Then Osse ’o will guide the girl of the pale-faces to her father.”
Without giving her an opportunity to reply, he led the horse rapidly forward until they reached the plateau he had briefly described.