In the meantime, what of Marta? Would her love endure? With no explanation of his sudden disappearance—with no word of love from him—no promise of his return—no message to bid her hope—would she wait for him? Was her faith in him strong enough to stand under such a cruel test?
Many times during the first weeks of his strange captivity he begged the Indian for permission to send some word to the woman he loved. But the red man invariably answered, “No,” with the cold warning that if he made any attempt to communicate with any one he should be returned to prison. When the white man realized that his importunities only served to give the Indian a cruel pleasure, he ceased to plead.
Then one evening just at dusk the red man said:
“Come, my friend, this will not do at all. You are not nearly so entertaining as you were. You need inspiration—come with me.”
He led the way to a point on the mountain ridge not far above the hut. The colors of the sunset were still bright in the western sky and behind them the higher peaks and crags were glowing in the light, but far below in the Cañon of Gold and over the desert beyond, the deepening dusk lay like a shadowy sea.
“Look!” said the Indian, pointing into the gloomy depths. “Do you see it—down there directly under that lone bright star? Almost as if it were a reflection of the star, only not so cold?”
“Do you mean that light?”
“Yes, you have good eyes for a white man,” answered the Indian. “I am glad. I feared you might not be able to see it.”
He paused and the other, watching the tiny red point in the darkness so far below, waited.
“That light is in the home of your friends, the Pardners and their daughter.”