The breed boys turned away in silent, stolid, Indian fashion, and the bare-headed girl stood in the still gloom of the willow-brush listening to the sound of their horses' quick hoof-beats until the last dull thud had died in the distance.
"Chuck-away!" called a voice from the creek bank.
"Coming!" answered the girl, turning about with a start and running back along the path.
At the bank she stopped, unnerved with a rush of thoughts, overwhelming—terrifying. She knelt down in the long grass, clasped her hands over her heart as if to tear it from her, and raised for an instant a strained, white face to the starlit canopy of heaven.
"The brave can die but once," her heart repeated wildly. "But I am a coward—I cannot bear it! Oh, God,—if you are the great, good God,—spare him from all harm, from suffering and death! Spare him now! See, I offer myself instead—freely, gladly! Take me, but spare him!"
A dimly outlined face from the bank above looked down at her, followed by a soft, mellow laugh.
"The bank is so steep," said Livingston softly. "Here, give me your hand and I will pull you up."
She took a quick step upward, then stopped just below him and looked at him intently.
"God in heaven," she said wildly to herself, "I swear they shall not harm a hair of your head! I'll tear the heart out of every man of them that comes near you! I'll kill them all, the hounds, the sneaks, the low vermin!"
She looked at him an instant so, then laughed—an odd, mirthless, reverberant laugh, that echoed on the hills above.