"I think, dear," he said, as he gravely lifted her to her feet, "that you shouldn't have come."
CHAPTER XXIII
RIFLES!
Mira and Blue Pete rested on the ground in the shadows of the clump of spruce that concealed the entrance to their cave, watching the flicker of the setting sun on the smooth surface of the sluggish river. Except for moccasins and blankets they always wore now the Indian disguise in which Torrance and his friends knew them. In the semi-darkness of the trees the old corncob pipe sparked rapidly, sweeter to the halfbreed than nectar, for Mira had held the match that lit it.
Night after night he was content to sit like that, her small hand cuddled in his; but in the evening hours there were so many things to do toward the fulfilment of their dream.
"Jest a coupla weeks more, Mira," he murmured. "Mebbe a few days longer."
"And the last two horses?"
"I'll git 'em somehow. It gits harder every time the bohunks do things, 'cause somebody's allus watchin'. But I never was fooled yet, an' no tenderfoot's goin' to start. . . . Only I don't want no shootin'."
"Perhaps he'll sell now when the time's so near."
Blue Pete laughed mirthlessly. "Yuh don't know Torrance. He said he wudn't, an' that's better'n a million dollars to him."