But Rosebud was paying little heed. She was already changing her clothes. She knew the value of time just then, and she had been forced to waste much already. While she was completing the transformation, the squaw went out and changed her saddle and bridle for an Indian blanket and surcingle with stirrups attached to it, and a plaited, gaudy rope bridle and spade bit.
When she came back the white girl had completed her toilet, even to the moccasins and buckskin chapps. Even the undemonstrative Wanaha exclaimed at the metamorphosis.
She saw before her in the dim starlight the most delightful picture of a squaw. Rosebud’s wealth of golden hair was hidden beneath the folds of the colored blanket, and only her fair white face with its dazzling eyes, bright now with excitement, shone out and destroyed the illusion.
“You are much beautiful,” the Indian declared in amazement. Then she stood gazing until Rosebud’s practical voice roused her. 310
“Food, my Wana.”
“I give bread and meat. It in bags on the horse. So. Now you go?”
“Yes, dear Wana. I must go.”
Rosebud reached her arms up to the tall woman’s neck, and drawing her dark face down to her own, kissed her. Though she loved this dark princess she knew that her kiss was the kiss of Judas. Then she passed out, and, mounting her horse, rode away.
Within five minutes of her going, and while Wanaha was still standing in the doorway looking after her, a party of warriors, headed by Little Black Fox himself, rode up to the house. The chief had come in search of Nevil Steyne. He angrily demanded the white man’s whereabouts of the woman who was his sister.
The ensuing scene was one of ferocious rage on the part of the headstrong man, and fear, hidden under an exterior of calm debate, on the part of Wanaha. She knew her brother, and in her mind tried to account for her husband’s absence. After the warriors had departed she passed a night of gloomy foreboding.