The old grudge between Pawnee and Apache had been settled at last.
Tom Kyle surveyed the sea of upturned faces. There existed, so far as he could see, no enmity against him.
It is an Indian’s right to slay his enemy wherever he meets him, and Gold Feather had exercised that right. He could not be arrested, by savage law; it was justifiable homicide in the red-man’s eyes—not cold-blooded murder, needing an expiation.
Tarantulah found a lodge for the pale captives, and when Tom Kyle had departed, after wishing them happiness in their new quarters, they came together in a sweet embrace.
“Now, Mabel, captivity begins in terrible earnest,” said Lina Aiken. “The day for rescues has passed, for who is there to hunt us now?”
Mabel Denison looked up into the pale, sympathizing face that bent over her, and answered, in a calm, determined tone:
“I do not despair, Lina. While there’s life there’s hope. We have friends among these savages.”
“Friends!” echoed Lina Aiken, astonishment depicted on every handsome lineament. “Friends among fiends! No, no, Mabel! You take wishes for reality.”
Fair-eyed Mabel Denison glanced at the shadow of their guard, which fell into the lodge, and drew nearer her sister.
“We have one friend, at least, among the fierce Apaches,” she whispered, “and that friend is the chief whom we have heard called Gold Feather.”