Chapter Seventy One.
A queer Conversation.
Is other days, and under other circumstances, the touch of that round arm, softly encircling my waist, might have caused the current of my veins to flow fast and fevered. Not so then. My blood was thin and chill. My soul recoiled from amatory emotions, or indulged in them only as a remembrance. Even in that hour of trial and temptation, my heart was true to thee, Lilian! Had it been thy arm thus wound around my waist—had those eyes that glanced over my shoulder been blue, and the tresses that swept it gold—I might for the moment have forgotten the peril of my companions, and indulged only in the ecstasy of a selfish love. But not with her—that strange being with whom chance had brought me into such close companionship. For her I had no love-yearnings. Even under the entwining of that beautiful arm, my sense was as cold, as if I had been in the embrace of a statue. My thoughts were not there.
My captive comrades were uppermost in my mind. Her promise had given me hope that they might yet be rescued. How? and by whom? Whither were we going? and whose was the powerful hand from which help was to come? I would have asked; but our rapid movement precluded all chance of conversation. I could only form conjectures. These pointed to white men—to some rendezvous of trappers that might be near. I knew there were such. How else in such a place could her presence be accounted for? Even that would scarce explain an apparition so peculiar as that of this huntress-maiden! Other circumstances contradicted the idea that white men were to be my allies. There could be no band of trappers strong enough to attack the dark host of Red-Hand—at least with the chance of destroying it? She knew the strength of the Arapahoes. I had told her their number, as I had myself estimated it—nearly two hundred warriors. It was rare that a party of white hunters mustered above a dozen men. Moreover, she had mentioned a name—twice mentioned it—“Wa-ka-ra.” No white was likely to bear such an appellation. The word was undoubtedly Indian—especially as the huntress had pronounced it.
I waited for an opportunity to interrogate her. It offered at length—where the path ran circuitously among loose rocks, and it was impossible to proceed at a rapid pace I was about initiating a dialogue, when I was forestalled in my intention.
“You are an officer in the army!” said my companion, half interrogatively. “How should you have known that?” answered I in some surprise—perceiving that her speech was rather an assertion than a question. “Oh! easily enough; your uniform tells me.”
“My uniform?”
“Yes. Have you not still a portion of it left?” inquired she, with a striking simplicity. “I see a mark here where lace stripes have been. That denotes an officer—does it not? The Arapahoes have stripped them off, I suppose?”
“There was lace—true—you have guessed correctly. I have been in the army.”
“And what was bringing you out here? On your way to the gold countries, I dare say?”