The youth instantly comprehended the Pawnee’s words. A division of the captives had already been made, and Mabel Denison had fallen into the hands of the renegade. He allowed a flush of mingled fear and shame to overspread his face, and he clenched his white hands till the nails blued the palms.
Perhaps he already loved the fair girl who had been his companion across the plains, and well might he fear for her safety, if such was the case.
“I will be near her,” he murmured, “and perhaps I may yet thank God for my fearful ride through the jaws of death.”
The Indians watched the youth and the disappearing horses alternately, until White Lasso strode toward his own steed, panting near by. He bore our hero in his arms, and seated him on the foam-flecked mustang, before vaulting into the Spanish saddle himself.
“White Lasso love white boy,” the Indian whispered to his charge. “He had a boy once; but the Apaches scalp ’im ’fore he won his feathers. Pale-face take that boy’s place now.”
The next moment a middle-aged Indian rode up to the chief.
“Upper Pawnees will want white boy. Kenoagla give him them other day.”
White Lasso’s face darkened, and fire flashed from his midnight orbs. His hand flew to his knife.
“White boy is White Lasso’s son now. Upper Pawnees no git ’im again. The Pale Pawnees can not give ’im back. Kenoagla not Pawnee’s true king!”
He shot a glance burdened with passion around upon the band, and the eyes which he met told that Tom Kyle’s days of mastery were drawing to a close.