AND Hugh Edwards knew by the light that flashed in the Indian’s somber eyes—by the expression of that dark countenance, and by the proud bearing of the red man, that Natachee had put aside the teaching of the white man’s school. There was something, too, beneath the Indian’s stoical composure which told Hugh that he was under the strain of some great excitement.
Gazing at Edwards with a curious intentness, the Indian said:
“My friend has been watching his star in the Cañon of Gold.”
“Yes, Natachee, I have been up on the mountain.”
Silently the Indian gave him a letter. It was from Marta.
Hugh handled the letter, turning it over and over, as if debating with himself what he should do with it.
“Open it and read,” said the Indian, “then hear what I, Natachee, shall say.”
Edwards opened the letter and read.
It was not a long letter, but it was filled with the strongest assurances of understanding and sympathy that a woman’s loving heart could pen. Saint Jimmy had told her of the completion of the story that had been left unfinished by the Mexican, and had explained its effect on the man she loved. But it made no difference to her, that she was proved to be the daughter of George Clinton, except that she was glad for her future husband’s sake that her birth was honorable—that she was not nameless, as she had believed herself to be. For the rest, everything must go on exactly as if she were still the old prospectors’ partnership girl. Saint Jimmy had gone to complete the arrangements he had started to make when Sonora Jack carried her away. There must be no change in their plans. When they were safe out of the country, she could communicate with her father. Hugh must come for her at once. She would be waiting for him to-morrow morning.
With deliberate care, Hugh Edwards folded the letter and returned it to the envelope.