Light for the apartment was furnished by a sputtering torch stuck in a crevice of the wall.
The Indian stepped from the platform and listened intently. No sound broke the stillness.
He moved toward the corridor, his right hand grasping the wrists of the girl.
His mystification was great, but not so great as that of Myra Wilton. How had the struggle in the cave terminated, and what had become of the combatants?
A partial answer was afforded when the Indian and the girl entered the inner chamber of the cave. On the rocky floor lay Raven Feather and Crow-killer. Each was bound and gagged, and each bore the marks of terrible punishment.
“Ugh!” grunted the young Navaho. Then he looked at the girl. “What for?” he said in English.
Myra’s eyes were on a large hole high up in one corner. When she was a prisoner in the chamber there had been no such hole. Where the hole was there had been a crevice, which had admitted light. Facing the Navaho, she replied quietly: “For me.”
The savage, whose knowledge of English was limited, understood her, but he was unable to say in response what he desired to say.
He hesitated a moment, and then drew some leather cords from his breast and proceeded to tie her hands.
The operation finished, he lifted her up and sat her down beside the prostrate chief. Raven Feather was in possession of his senses, and his snaky eyes twinkled in evil satisfaction as he watched the actions of his subordinate.