The thought of escape lent new speed to her limbs, and she was just entering a line of cottonwoods, that stood like stately sentinels in the starlight, when a figure rose from the ground in her very path.
In an instant she saw the plumes of an Indian warrior, and halted with the famous horn drawn menacingly back.
But her right arm was caught before it could descend, and she saw a grotesque red face peering into hers.
“Go!” said a voice, and Dora was pushed on in no very gentle manner.
But the next words sent a thrill through every fibre of her frame.
“Only a poor, sneakin' Injun gal! I don't hev dealings with thet kind o' truck. I'm hyar arter a white 'un, an' I'll make the dogs open thar eyes afore to-morrow night. For I'm the Screamin' Eagle of the Smoky Roost! a reg'lar sky-scraper!”
Dora Lightway stood still like a person rooted to the ground with amazement.
She was afraid to breathe.
The man near her might be a friend.
“Who ar' ye look'n' at? Move yer boots, or the Screamin' Eagle—not Red Jingo of the Little Big-Horn—will accelerate yer pace!”