As yet the girl exhibited no signs of life; the beautiful face, cold and marble-like, met his gaze with no return of expression, save that forbidding one of death. If the road-agent had laid his pistol-hand over the heart, he would have detected a faint movement which would cause his own to leap for joy.
But, in his anger and his thoughts of dark revenge, he never thought of this.
After awhile Midnight Jack crawled from the wagon with his beautiful burden, which he deposited gently upon a rich, soft plat of grass, that seemed to invite its sleeper.
Then he drew a piece of “keil” from his pocket, and wrote on one side of the vehicle these words:—
“Killed by Midnight Jack! This is but the beginning. Uncle Sam won't have to feed the Sioux much longer. Blood for blood!”
Midnight Jack was satisfied with this writing, and as he turned again to the little figure reposing on the grass, he said—
“I mean every word—every letter of that inscription!”
When he remounted his charger, which had watched its master with almost human interest, the body of Dora lay in his arms, and Midnight Jack rode from the scene of his exploit.
“Yes, she died before the evil days had time to fasten upon her. But what brought her away out here, anyhow? I'd give my very life to know!”
Talking in this and a like strain, the road-agent did not seem to note the progress of his horse, but he suddenly spoke to the animal, which came to a halt in a beautiful spot not far from the banks of the Cheyenne river.