“Take him. Keep him till I return,” she said fiercely.
“Where do you go?” said the chief sternly.
“I go to save the man I love,” she breathed.
“But who loves you not.” The chief’s tones were eloquent of scorn.
“What matters that? Not for myself I go, but for him. To bring him back—to—her.”
“Fool!” said the chief.
“Yes, fool, fool,” she answered passionately. “But he will be safe—and—happy.” She hurried into her wigwam, snatched a few camp necessities and, swift as a deer, sped on the white man’s trail.
CHAPTER VII
For three days the Pine Croft Ranch was plunged in gloom. In her room the lady of the ranch lay, fighting back death till her man should return. She was unwilling to pass out of the world in which together they had shared so deeply of its joys, without another word beyond that last spoken between them.
On the third day Paul, with face pale, tense and worn, rode into the Indian camp to interview the Chief. Straight up he stood, pale, quivering under the nerve strain, but unafraid.