As he walked along, the moon arose in brilliant beauty upon the wild scenery, and shed a bright light upon lofty hill, rocky gorge, and lovely vale.
The story of the spirit of the valley haunted Red Hand’s memory with weird and bitter thoughts, for he remembered the grave made in the valley and the apparition he had seen there after he had consigned the body of Ben Talbot to its last resting place.
Often had Red Hand endeavored to convince himself that the sight was but a phantom of his troubled brain; but, no; it came too vividly before him in form, gesture, and song, and he felt that if he had not seen a spirit from the shadowy land, he had certainly beheld a woman.
Yet—who could this woman be who had thus been with Ben Talbot, living alone in the wild Black Hills?
He entered the narrow gorge, the inlet to the accursed valley, and the silvery light of the moon caused every tree and bowlder to stand forth in phantomlike shadow. But Red Hand was not of a superstitious nature. Nerving himself for what was before him, he hurried forward at a swifter pace.
Down the valley he hastened for half a mile. Then the shadowy hill and large trees at its base, both of which were photographed upon his mind, loomed up before him. Buffalo Bill had passed on before, and was nowhere in sight. Already Red Hand had almost forgotten him.
“I’ll solve this mystery if I die in the attempt,” said Red Hand, and he turned once more toward the tree.
Then he halted, for, standing at the head of the grave was a woman. Nearer and nearer to the tree he drew, until the glimmer of the dark eyes were almost visible. Then he stopped short, for a strangely sad voice, striving to be firm, cried out:
“Hold! Let not the foot of any man desecrate this sacred spot!”
“Great God! Where have I heard that voice before?” was his thought. “No, it is not, it cannot be—for she is dead; yes, dead by her own hand.”