It was growing rapidly dark as they advanced, but the chief who led the party was intimately acquainted with every foot of the way, and as the moon rose before daylight had quite disappeared, they were enabled to continue their journey by night.
“No doubt” remarked Fred Westly to Paul, who was permitted to walk beside him, though Flinders was obliged to walk behind— “no doubt the chief fears that Stalker will pursue him when he is rejoined by his robber band, and wants to get well out of his way.”
“Very likely,” returned Bevan; “an’ it’s my opinion that he’ll find some more of his tribe hereabouts, in which case Master Stalker and his blackguards will have pretty stiff work cut out for them.”
“What think you of the threat of the chief to take Betty to be one of his wives?” asked Fred.
“Well, I don’t think he’ll do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve got a hold over him that he’s not aware of just yet.”
“What is that, and why did you not make use of it just now to prevent our being needlessly led farther into these mountains?” asked Fred, in surprise.
“What the hold is,” returned Bevan, “you shall know at supper-time. The reason why I didn’t make use of it sooner is that on the whole, I think it better to stick by the Redskins yet awhile—first, because if Stalker should look for us, as he’s sartin sure to do, we would not be strong enough to fight him in the open; and, secondly, because poor Tom Brixton needs rest, and he has more chance o’ that in the circumstances, wi’ the Redskins than he could have with us while being hunted by robbers; and, lastly, because Betty would come to grief if she fell into that villain Stalker’s hands just now.”
While Paul and Fred were thus conversing, the Rose of Oregon and her little protector rode silently beside each other, buried, apparently, in profound thought.