Then the Reverend Howard Wynkoop flung the empty gun disdainfully down into the dirt, stepped directly across the motionless outstretched body, and knelt humbly beside a slender, white-robed figure lying close against the fringe of bushes. Tenderly he lifted the fair head to his throbbing bosom, and gazed directly down into the white, unconscious face. Even as he looked her eyes unclosed, her body trembling within his arms.
"Have no fear," he implored, reading terror in the expression of her face. "Miss Spencer—Phoebe—it is only I, Mr. Wynkoop."
"You! Have those awful creatures gone?"
"Yes, yes; be calm, I beg you. There is no longer the slightest danger. I am here to protect you with my life if need be."
"Oh, Howard—Mr. Wynkoop—it is all so strange, so bewildering; my nerves are so shattered! But it has taught me a great, great lesson. How could I have ever been so blind? I thought Mr. Moffat and Mr. McNeil were such heroes, and yet now in this hour of desperate peril it was you who flew gallantly to my rescue! It is you who are the true Western knight!"
And Mr. Wynkoop gazed down into those grateful eyes, and modestly confessed it true.
CHAPTER XVII
THE PARTING HOUR
To Lieutenant Brant these proved days of bitterness. His sole comfort was the feeling that he had performed his duty; his sustaining hope, that the increasing rumors of Indian atrocity might soon lead to his despatch upon active service. He had called twice upon Hampton, both times finding the wounded man propped up in bed, very affable, properly grateful for services rendered, yet avoiding all reference to the one disturbing element between them.