Prudence had arisen before the end came and was standing in front of the Indian to motion him away. Follett was glad she did not see the eyes glaze nor the head drop. He leaned forward and gently loosed the limp fingers from the yellow tangle. Then he sprang quickly up and put his arm about Prudence. The two Indians backed off in some dismay. The one who had first come to them spoke again.
“Big medicine! You give some chitcup?”
“No—no! Got no chitcup! Vamose!”
They turned silently and trotted back over the ridge.
“Come, sit here close by the fire, dear—no, around this side. It’s all over now.”
“Oh! Oh! My poor, sorry little father—he was so good to me!” She threw herself on the ground, sobbing.
Follett spread a saddle-blanket over the huddled figure at the foot of the cross. Then he went back to take her in his arms and give her such comfort as he could.
Chapter XLIII.
The Gentile Carries off his Spoil
Half an hour later they heard the sound of voices and wheels. Follett looked up and saw a light wagon with four men in it driving into the Meadows from the south. The driver was Seth Wright; the man beside him he knew to be Bishop Snow, the one they called the Entablature of Truth. The two others he had seen in Amalon, but he did not know their names.
He got up and went forward when the wagon stopped, leaning casually on the wheel.