It was near midnight now, and the darkest hour was at hand. The black cloud wall had blotted the moon, as it were, from the heavens, and but four stars, toward the east, still illuminated the skies.
The horses were fresh and eager to rush over the prairies, in the face of the cool breeze, that came from the west. They pawed the sod, and arched their noble necks, until the Indian curbed their ire with his voice, and made them seem statues in the darkness.
Winnesaw watched and waited with bated breath.
The consummation of treason seemed never to dawn. But what seemed hours to the girl were but minutes, and at last footsteps broke the ghastly silence.
The click, click, of rifle and revolver were drowned by the noise of the swaying grass.
Three forms joined the single Pawnee, but two bore human-shaped objects in their arms.
The next moment two Indians vaulted to the mustangs’ backs, and the steed-watcher lifted the girls to their arms.
“Now the boy!”
It was White Lasso’s voice, and Winnesaw was near enough to see that a tight bandage covered the boy’s mouth, and that Mabel Denison and the Gold Girl were similarly secured.
The Indian addressed by the chief caught Charley Shafer in his arms, threw him upon the back of the third horse, and then leaped up after him.