“What! Marian? Is it of her you are speaking?”
“Why, sartin, capt’n. Who else shed it be?”
“Marian dead?”
“Yes—poor girl, she never lived to see that Salt Lake city—whar the cussed varmint war takin’ her. She died on the way out, an’ war berryed som’rs on the paraireys. I wish I knew whar—I’d go to see her grave.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Whose story is this?”
My companion looked at me in amazement. The laugh, at such a time, must have sounded strange to his ears.
“The Injun heerd it from Lil,” replied Wingrove, still puzzled at my behaviour. “Stebbins had told it to Holt, an’ to her likeways. Poor young creetur! I reck’n he’ll be a wantin’ her too—now thet he’s lost the other. Poor little Lil!”
“Cheer, comrade, cheer! Either Su-wa-nee or Stebbins has lied—belike both of them, since both had a purpose to serve: the Mormon to deceive the girl’s father—the Indian to do the same with you. The story is false, Marian Holt is not dead.”
“Marian ain’t dead?”
“No, she lives—she has been true to you. Listen.”