The Arizona night was very clear, so that she saw the Indian a long way off. For the first few moments she hoped, of course, that the oncoming figure might be Bettina’s; but a little later the idea was impossible. For she recognized that the figure was a man’s, and from his odd costume that he must be an Indian.
He came striding on toward the mesa, swiftly climbed the steep path and walked directly up to Mrs. Burton, who was waiting there alone. The girls were in their tents—not sleeping, but talking together in low voices. Sally and Gerry were whispering—a fashion they frequently indulged in.
Ten minutes before, Marie had urged her mistress to lie down, but Mrs. Burton had insisted that she would be far less nervous if allowed to remain out of doors.
“I came with news of Miss Graham; she is safe,” the young Indian announced as soon as he was within speaking distance, sensibly relieving Polly’s anxiety at once.
Something—the curious contrast between his cultivated manner and voice and his costume—made Mrs. Burton recognize him at once.
“Then our meeting on the train was a happy accident. I felt it might be,” she returned cordially, holding out her hand.
“Sit down beside me, please, and tell me just what has happened.”
Now, that the strain was over, Mrs. Burton felt oddly weak in the knees, as one often does after a period of anxiety.
Yet, later, when she knew that Bettina was safe and not seriously hurt, Mrs. Burton found that her sense of romance had not so completely disappeared that she did not enjoy continuing to sit there for a few added moments.
The young Indian was so handsome; his personality and his appearance so fitted into the unusual and picturesque landscape. Then there was something in his grave courtesy which pleased the older woman.