She opened her eyes with a great effort and looked at him woodenly. A vague perplexity crept into her haggard, deathly face; a faint smile; then all her perplexity vanished and, smiling almost rapturously, she put out a trembling hand—touched his cheek—whispered—
In a flash, he knew her—in spite of her thinness, suffering, faded beauty. His mind went back through the mists of three—four—five years and more, back to Milk River, Fort Walsh and Sleeping Thunder's teepee—
It was Moon.
He uttered a strange, inarticulate cry—struggled to speak—could not—
She touched his cheek a second time. Agony was in her smile, making it terrible.
"Oh,—they've killed—me," she said.
"Moon!" Hector burst out, "What are you doing here?"
She still smiled—the old sweetness always in her face—through tears of pain that dimmed her beautiful, soft eyes. Every word was an intense effort.
"So—you have—come," she whispered. "I stayed—behind—to meet you. I was—so tired—so tired—and Loud Gun—he beat me. I knew—you were—following us—everybody knew it, for—everybody—knows you. You will—not beat—me. You have always—been kind—to me. I thought, 'I can—go no—further. I will stay—behind—and go to him. And he—will protect me.' So I—stayed. That is why—I am here. I was waiting—till you came—near. I—thought I—would jump out at you—as children—do. I—thought 'How pleased and surprised he—will be.' But, oh—they shot me!"
Hector held her closer. A thin trail of blood trickled pitifully from the corner of her trembling, childish mouth. The sight pierced him. He took her shaking hand.