The anger seemed to die out of the face of the Indian girl, to be replaced by a look of fear.
“The rough wind of the mountain blew on the head of Wind Flower, and it made her wild,” she said. “But the wind has passed, and she is well again.”
He shot her a keen glance.
“Be careful that the mountain wind does not strike the head of Wind Flower again,” he warned; “it might take it off, and roll it down the hillside!”
He glanced back along the trail, and then at the half-fainting white girl. He drew his hatchet and waved it in her face.
“We go on!” he said. “But the mountain wind still blows!”
Then he again got behind the horses and drove them on with switches, getting increased speed out of them.
The brown face of Wind Flower had assumed a dark, leaden hue, as wild emotions raged and burned in her heart.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE FLIGHT OF THE FUGITIVES.
That he might hasten along faster, and at the same time conceal his trail in the tracks made by horses that had passed, the crafty young chief soon left the rough and rocky hillsides, and entered the regular mountain highway that connected the town below with some of the mines above.