Clayton lashed the horse; and, in spite of its double burden, it fairly flew along the winding trail.
“We’re all right!” he said to the girl he clasped in his arms. “I don’t understand it, but you’re safe now, Lena; and I think God must have sent me along the trail at just that time, that I might save you from that wretch.”
She shuddered, put her arms round his shoulders, and nestled closer to him.
It seemed a delightful dream—this sudden transition from her position as the prisoner of a painted Indian into the arms of the youth she loved, and whom she had promised to marry.
“You’re all right now?” he demanded.
“Yes,” she whispered; “only—only terribly frightened!”
“Still frightened? You’re safe now as can be.”
“I mean that I—I was frightened and I’m so weak that I don’t think I could walk; but this is heaven, after that—after I thought I was to be taken to the Blackfoot village, and there forced to become the squaw of an Indian.”
“That young Indian chief?”
“No; Crazy Snake!”