“The white spirits of the water threw themselves around the maiden and hid her in a shroud of spray.”
Before the sun again strode the bald peaks of the Sky Mountains, he was gone; and when the women came forth to make ready the morning meal, the old chief saw that Wa-hu-lah was not among them; and he knew that the spirit of the peace pipe had been violated.
Wa-hu-lah made no struggle when she found herself borne along in the arms of her captor. Her heart beat like the heart of a hunted thing that feels the hunter near and cover far away, but her face showed no sign. It was useless to resist; but had the Ah-wah-nee-chee looked into the still, sad depths of her eyes, he would have seen there a glittering spark, the fire of a woman’s lasting hate.
Along the heavy trail he toiled, and not until he reached the kinder paths that Spring had cleared did he let Wa-hu-lah’s feet rest upon the ground. Then she walked before him, silent, submissive, but with the spark still glowing in her downcast eyes.
Silent, submissive, she followed as he led the way to the place he had prepared for her,—a woodland bower, pine carpeted, roofed with boughs of oak and alder, the couch of branches spread with deerskin.
Silent, submissive, she ate of the food he brought her, fresh bear meat and acorn bread, and grass roots fattened by the melting snows.
Silent still, but with submission changed to defiant purpose, she watched him go away and take his place among the braves of his tribe who ate as the women prepared their food. Hunger possessed him and he gave no thought to caution. At another time his quick ear might have caught the sound of twigs snapping under the pressure of a moccasined foot; now it heard only the hiss of meat thrown upon live coals.
The moon floated high above Cloud’s Rest and the valley was full of light, yet none saw the dark figure that crept stealthily, warily, into the shadow of the crouching chaparral, keeping with the wind that blew from, not toward, the camp-fire. Once only Wa-hu-lah paused, and turned to see that she was not discovered; and from her eyes shot one swift look that would have killed, could looks deal death. Then she sped forward on the trail that led from Ah-wah-nee, with its blossoming dogwood and azalea, its buckthorn and willow, to the snows of the higher mountains, the home of her people.
Swiftly she ran, frightened by the night shapes that danced before her in the path, nor daring to slacken her pace or give a backward glance. But scarce had she passed through the spray thrown across the trail by Py-we-ack, the White Water, when she heard wild shouts rising from the half-darkness below, shouts that told her the Ah-wah-nee-chees knew that she was gone, had started in pursuit. Behind her on the trail her footprints lay naked on the yielding earth, and she knew that here in Ah-wah-nee the men of Ten-ie-ya’s band knew every path that she might choose, every tree and rock where she might find a hiding-place. Already the race was won.