As Wilder looked in the direction that was pointed out, he caught sight of a woman’s dress, near the trunk of a large tree. He hastened forward, and in a few moments was in the presence of Flora Robinette.
The young lady did not appear to be eager for the meeting. She did not move from where she stood, and looked at him with wonder and something of suspicion as he advanced and held out his hand.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“A friend.”
“I wish I could believe it. I was told by the Indian who brought me here that, if I would wait, I would soon see one of my own race; but he said that you were no longer a white man; that you had joined the Blackfeet. What is your name?”
“I am called Fred Wilder; but it matters not what my name is. I am a white man and a friend. The Indian hardly told you the truth. He has taken a fancy to me, has adopted me as his brother, and has introduced me to his people; but I am far from considering myself one of them. This morning I saved two white men from death by fire, and I hope to be able to save you. It is certain that I shall use my best endeavors to do so. Before this I would have seen you; but I did not know that you were a captive, until I saw the Indians dancing around the scalps of your father and another man.”
“My father’s scalp! Good God! this is horrible. Did they tell you whose it was?”
“They told me that it was his, and then I learned the particulars of the attack upon his train.”
“There was another scalp, you say—what did it look like?” asked Flora, with an accent and an air of painful interest.
“It was the scalp of a white man, and the hair was black, short and curling.”