“He coveted the girl. She was innocent—she had no notion. One evening after supper he and she rode up into a narrow draw, here in western Wyoming, to seek flowers. He roped her and gagged her and left her while he returned to the camp, on one pretext or another. He succeeded in fastening a note inside her tent: ‘Tell my husband I’ve gone with a better man.’”
“I got the note,” nodded the old man grimly. “Well?”
“The note was a forgery and a lie,” said I.
He sneered again.
“How do you know?”?
“I know. This first night he rode with the woman tied to her saddle; the second night he freed her. He didn’t fear pursuit, and the trail and the train were fifty miles behind. It was a lowering evening, and a wild land. He advanced upon her, she smiled as if she had yielded, but when he reached for her she struck him across the mouth and snatched his knife from his belt and defied him.”
“Indeed? And how do you happen to know that, sir?”
“Wait. This stopped him for a moment. She fell upon her knees and prayed to God for help. He wiped his lips and laughed. Can you imagine that little scene, Mr. Brown? She in white, as she was——”
“She always loved white. There you are right,” conceded the old man.
“And disheveled and at bay; he in his buckskins and greasy black Indian hair, his lips bloody and his teeth glistening; and all the country around promising no succor for her?”