The ligature was perfect—cruelly complete. There was no hope that such fastenings would give way. Those thongs of raw-hide would not come undone. Horse and rider could never part from that unwilling embrace—never, till hunger, thirst, death—no, not even death could part them! Oh, horror!
Not without groans could I contemplate the hideous fate of my betrothed—of her whose love had become my life.
I left the tracking to my comrades, and my horse to follow after. I rode with loose rein, and head drooping forward; I scarcely gave thought to design. My heart was well-nigh broken.
Chapter Fifty Eight.
The Voyageur.
We had not gone far when some one closed up beside me, and muttered a word of cheer; I recognised the friendly voice of the big trapper.
“Don’t be afeerd, capt’n,” said he, in a tone of encouragement; “don’t be afeerd! Rube an me’ll find ’em afore thar’s any harm done. I don’t b’lieve the white hoss ’ll gallip fur, knowin’ thar’s someb’dy on his back. It war them gim-cracks that sot him off. When they burn out, he’ll come to a dead halt, an then—”
“And then?” I inquired mechanically.