Chapter Eighty Five.
The Last Hours on the Trail.
More cautiously than ever, we now crept along the trail—advancing only after the ground had been thoroughly “quartered” by the scouts. Time was of the least consequence. The fresh sign of the Indians told us they were but a short way ahead of us: we believed we could have ridden within sight of them at any moment.
We did not wish to set eyes on them before sunset. It could be no advantage to us to overtake them on the march, but the contrary. Some lagging Indian might be found in the rear of the band; we might come in contact with him, and thus defeat all our designs.
We hung back, therefore—allowing sufficient time for the savages to pitch their camp, and for their stragglers to get into it.
On the other hand, I did not desire to arrive late. The council was to be held that night—so she had learned—and after the council would come the crisis. I must be in time for both.
At what hour would the council take place?
It might be just after they had halted. The son of a chief, and a chief himself—for the white renegade was a leader of red men—a question between two such men would not remain long undecided. And a question of so much importance—involving such consequence—property in body and soul—possession of the most beautiful woman in the world!
Oh! I wondered! Could these hideous, ochre-stained, grease-bedaubed brutes appreciate that peerless beauty? Impossible, I thought. The delicate lines of her loveliness would be lost upon their gross eyes and coarse sensual hearts. That pearl beyond price—paste would have satisfied them as well—they could not distinguish the diamond from common glass.
And yet the Comanche is not without love-craft. Coarse as might be the passion, no doubt they loved her—both loved her—red savage and white savage.