Chapter One Hundred Five.
An unexpected Defection.
Almost as soon as we heard the voices, we saw those who were giving utterance to them. A horseman appeared issuing from the jaws of the chasm—another, and another—until eight had filed into the open ground! They were all armed men—armed with guns, pistols, and knives. He in the lead was at once identified. The colossal stature, the green blanket-coat, red shirt, and kerchief turban, proclaimed that the foremost of our pursuers was Holt himself. Immediately behind him rode Stebbins; while those following in file were the executive myrmidons of the Mormon faith—the Destroying Angels!
On entering the open ground, Holt alone kept on without slackening his speed. Stebbins followed, but more cautiously and at a distance of several lengths of his horse. The Danites at sight of our animals, and ourselves too—for they could not fail to see our faces over the rocks—drew up; not suddenly, but one after the other—as if irresolute whether to advance, or remain where they were. Even Stebbins, though moving on after the squatter, did so with evident reluctance. He saw the barrels of our rifles gleaming above the boulders; and, when within about fifty paces of our position, he too reined in—keeping the body of Holt between himself and our guns. The squatter continued to advance, without the slightest show of fear. So near had he got to us, that we could note the expression upon his features, though it was difficult to understand it. It was one that bespoke reckless determination—no doubt a determination to recover his child from the savages who had stolen her; for as yet he had no reason to think otherwise than that we were Indians. Of course, none of us thought of firing upon Holt; but, had Stebbins at the moment advanced only a step nearer, there was more than one rifle ready to give out its deadly detonation.
Holt approached rapidly, his horse going a trot. He held his long gun obliquely in front of him, and grasped in both hands—as if ready to fire on the instant. All at once, he checked his horse, dropped the gun on the pommel of his saddle, and sat gazing towards us with a look of bewildered surprise. White faces appearing over the rock instead of red ones, had caused this sudden change in his demeanour.
Before he had time to give utterance to his astonishment, Lilian glided from behind the boulder, and standing with arms extended, cried out: “O father! they are not Indians! It is Marian! it is—” At the same instant her sister appeared by her side.
“Marian alive!” cried Holt, recognising his long-lost daughter. “My child Marian yet livin’! God be praised! Thur’s one weight off o’ my poor soul—an’ now to eeze it o’ another!” As he uttered the last words, he wrenched his horse half around, and dropped to his feet upon the nearer side. Then, quickly resting his rifle over the hollow of the saddle, he brought its barrel to bear on the breast of Stebbins—who still sat upon horseback, scarce twenty paces distant from its muzzle.
“Now, Josh Stebbins!” cried the squatter, in a voice of thunder, “the time’s come to squar the yards wi’ you!”
“What do you mean, Holt?” mechanically inquired the Mormon, in trembling surprise. “What do you mean by that?”