After considering the matter awhile she concluded to go forward, feeling confident that she could get close enough to ascertain whether it was whites or Indians before she would be discovered. Accordingly she hastened on, and when within twenty rods of the fire, began to be very cautious. The fire had died down to a bed of smoldering coals, and the light it afforded was not sufficient to reveal the forms around it.
As she flitted about, continually changing her position to enable her to see better, and gradually drawing nearer the fire, she was electrified by hearing a rough but good-natured voice exclaim:
“Would it be ill-mannered in me tew politely ask ye whar ye might be goin’?”
The maiden stopped with a joyful cry. It was the voice of a friend, although a stranger. While she stood silent, a tall, slab-sided, long-nosed man advanced from the darkness, and came up to her, trailing a long rifle.
“’Tain’t offen I see a woman,” he said, looking at her as if struck by a sudden idea; “tharfore ye’ll considerately excuse my manners. Jist let me ask if yer name is Marion Verne?”
“It is,” replied Marion. “May I ask who you are, and how you happened to see me?”
“Nat Rogers, at yer sarvice,” replied the trapper, for it was none other than he. “An’ as for seein’ ye, I ginerally have my optickles peeled. I’ve been follerin’ ye ’round ever since ye ’gan tew look at thet fire out thar. Ye’ll find some friends out thar. Let’s be pokin’ thet way. I konklude thet ye got away from the Injuns.”
“I escaped last night,” replied Marion, as they approached the fire.
As they came up, Vic Potter sprung to his feet with wild ejaculations, and Marion saw behind him a dark visage, distorted with a broad grin of wonder and pleasure.
“Varmints! Is it actually Marion?” cried Vic, taking her hand and giving it a hearty shake.