Uttering a bitter cry, she turned once more, tottered a few steps, and fainted.
As, wildly calling his daughter’s name, Sterling rushed by his stables, the wind smote him with tremendous power. Like a living thing it buffeted him about the ears, tore at his breath, poured over him an avalanche of snow. Still he pressed on and gained the bluff which Avis missed.
As he paused to draw a free breath, his eye picked out a fresh-made track. Full of a sudden hope, he shouted. A voice answered, and as he rushed eagerly forward a dark figure came through the drift to meet him. It was Batiste.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Sterling was cruelly disappointed, but he answered quickly: “You see my girl? Yes, my girl,” he repeated, noting the lad’s look of wonder. “Young white squaw, you see um?”
“Mooniah papoose?” queried Batiste.
“Yes, yes! She follow you. Want give you bread, want give you bacon. All gone, all lost!” Sterling finished with a despairing gesture.
“Squaw marche to me? Ba-kin for me?” questioned Batiste.
“Yes, yes!” cried Sterling, in a flurry of impatience.
“I find um,” he said, softly.