The horses did not go fast enough to suit Lightfoot, and he dropped behind, and lashed them on with switches, running at their heels.
He still was not traveling as rapidly as he desired. Fear of Long Hair lay heavily on him.
“Will Wind Flower stay here with the white girl prisoner of Crazy Snake, while Lightfoot goes to the top of the hill?” he asked at length. He gave it as an order, though wording it as a question; and then began to climb the hill, leaving the two girls there on the horses. In a few moments he had disappeared from sight.
Again, with pleading words, the white girl began to beg for the assistance of the Indian.
A strange look was in the face of the Indian maid, and Lena Forest believed it denoted a yielding, and so her hopes rose swiftly.
Wind Flower drew nearer, forcing her horse close up against that ridden by the prisoner. She stared with her black eyes into the brown orbs of the prisoner.
“The paleface loves the young chief?” she said, her voice tremulous. The words were articulated queerly, but their meaning was plain.
“No, no, no!” stammered Lena Forest. “That is a mistake. I do not love him—I am afraid of him. I want to go to the white people—my people. We can go now. We have the horses, and he is afoot. Let us go now. You are a woman. Help another woman who is in trouble.”
The black eyes looking into hers burned with a dangerous fire.
“The white girl lies!” said Wind Flower.