There was something in the manner of the outlaw toward her that Lucille could not understand, and that was his marked respect.
When it grew near sunset he ordered a halt, sought a secluded spot for his captive, had her canvas shelter put up, and placed before her a good supper, after which he left her, with the words:
“I shall halt here for four hours, and then it shall be six more in the saddle, so get what rest you can.”
Lucille enjoyed her supper, spread her blankets, and was soon fast asleep.
A call awakened her, and, fifteen minutes after, they were again in the saddle, this time the chief riding ahead of her, his masked followers coming along behind her.
“Why do they mask still? for they are all Indians, I have discovered,” she said to the chief.
“You are not so sure of that.”
“Oh, yes, I am,” was the girl’s confident reply. “I wasn’t born in the West, but I know an Indian when I see one.”
Another long ride through the darkness of six hours, and the chief called a halt, two hours before dawn.
Again Lucille was placed in a secluded spot, her shelter put up and she was made comfortable, the chief remarking: