“Neber mind,” she said to herself, though her mistress overheard the words, “when I come downstairs again, I’ll cotch one ob my feet and tumble onto you, and you’ll be squashed worser dan if de house tumbled ober your head.”
The captive seemed to understand what all 163 this meant. He had escaped thus far, but he might well fear the consequences, after the man aloft put in an appearance.
Dinah had hardly passed out of sight when the Comanche said in a low voice:
“Me go––won’t hurt.”
Although the intonation of the words was wrong, the woman knew from the glance at the door, which accompanied them, that he meant to ask permission to depart.
“Yes, you can go,” was the astonishing answer, and she nodded her head.
The Indian moved hesitatingly at first, in the direction of the entrance, keeping his gleaming eyes on the woman, as if doubtful whether she understood him.
“Go on, be quick,” she added reassuringly, though she took care that the old-fashioned weapon was not lowered or turned aside.
The voices of the servant and her master were plainly heard above, and the Comanche saw it was no time for tarrying. A couple more steps took him to the door, and, with little effort, he lifted the huge bolt from its place, pulled open the structure, and whisked 164 out in the darkness, without so much as a “good-night” or “thank you.”
The instant he vanished, Mrs. Shirril set down her gun, darted forward, and slipped back the bolt, making the door as secure as before.