“When she learns how unworthy Bernritter was of her regard,” said the scout reassuringly, “she will consider herself fortunate in escaping an alliance with such a man. She has reason to congratulate herself, and I believe she will look at it in that way.”
For the dozenth time McGowan got up, walked to the end of the office, and looked off along the Black Cañon trail in the direction along which his daughter and Golightly would come on their way from Phœnix. But still his anxious eyes failed to see anything of the star-faced cayuses and the buckboard. He turned back to Buffalo Bill, shaking his head forebodingly.
“Faith,” he remarked, with a strained laugh, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but I’m all on edge. If you ever had premonitions——”
“I have had,” interrupted the scout, “but I never allowed them to make me uncomfortable. Life’s too short to spend it borrowing trouble, or in crossing bridges before you get to them. If I were you——”
The scout himself was interrupted. Something hummed through the air with a shrill swish-h-h that made itself plain in spite of the throbbing of the mill-stamps; and the swishing sound was finished with a quick spat against the door of the office.
Both the scout and the mine-owner turned their eyes quickly to the door. A long, thin arrow was quivering in the wood, a bit of white paper, compactly folded, bound to it midway of its length.
“Ugh! Him Apache arrow!”
The speaker was Little Cayuse. He had appeared from around the office as suddenly as had the arrow.
Buffalo Bill’s quick eye discerned the scrap of paper, and his quick wit immediately inferred that the arrow had been launched by some one who was afraid to appear in person in the camp and bring a message.