Silvia paddled the canoe, with the Cheyenne concealed under its projecting rim, under the falls; and having landed, she raised the sweep to let the waters close, then she took the lamp from where the ranger had left it in a niche, and wended her way back to her apartment, seated herself and burst into tears.
The discovery that she had made had sorely wounded her young, loving heart, and left her confused mind wrapped in blind mystery.
Purle, the panther, was crouched at her feet, and as her eyes sought the floor, the animal started up, his ears laid back like those of a maddened cat, his tail moving slowly from side to side, and his eyes glaring like coals of fire.
Silvia looked in the direction indicated by his burning gaze, and to her horror she beheld a Cheyenne Indian gazing in upon her from the door of the apartment.
Silvia uttered a low sob and fell unconscious to the floor with affright, the paper falling on the table by the lamp.
The savage, not seeing the panther, advanced into the room, but the next instant the beast leaped forward and dragged him to the floor.
A fierce struggle ensued. But it was as brief as decisive. The panther tore the savage almost into shreds.
A few minutes later a footstep sounded in the rocky hall. The next moment Rodger Rainbolt entered the room. As his eyes fell upon the mutilated form of the savage, the prostrate form of Silvia, the blood upon the panther’s jowls, the paper upon the table by the lamp, he staggered under the sight.
Springing forward he raised Silvia tenderly in his arms and placed her upon the couch in the corner. He then turned to change the light in a better position, and as he did so the paper arrested his attention.
He glanced at the first word. A cry burst from his lips. His eyes became fixed upon the paper like one in a trance. He could not, he did not move them, until he had read the last word. Then he turned away, his whole frame trembling violently.