“Come, speak, Ralph, what does it mean?” repeated Frank.
“Heavens!” exclaimed the young doctor, starting up, “what could the ranger have written? It has killed the colonel, as God’s in Heaven, boys; he is dead—stone dead!”
CHAPTER V.
A ROBBER ROBBED.
The blood-red sun hung low in the western heavens, its usual brightness partly obscured by the blue mist that hung over the mountain and plain. The Black Hills lay dimly outlined against the murky sky. In the vast expanse of mountain and plain, but a single living object could be seen. That object was a large bird poised aloft above a narrow defile, or valley, in the Black Hills. For some time it seemed to hang motionless on the air, then it descended down, down until it was lost in the mountain shadows; then it darted up again, with a wild scream from the valley, its keen eyes fixed on some object far below. And what think you it was that Echo, the eagle, saw there?
It was a beautiful glade in the greenwood valley. A camp-fire burning in the center of the glade. A number of Indians seated around the fire. Several lodges standing in the background. An Indian encampment.
But two of the Indians claim our especial notice. The young chief, Allacotah, and his beautiful wife, Silver Voice.
The young chief sat apart from his companions, apparently in deep thought. Presently, the light figure of an Indian woman glided from one of the lodges in the background and approached him. She was young, not more than three and twenty. Her movements were graceful as the fawn’s; her voice as sweet and clear as the chimes of a silver bell. She was dressed in a short frock of some green material, beautifully ornamented with Indian handiwork, while beaded moccasins and white-fringed buck-skin leggings incased her feet and ankles.
Approaching and laying her hand upon Allacotah’s shoulder, she said, in pure English:
“Allacotah, my husband, seems thoughtful.”