CHAPTER XI.
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT.
Near the close of a beautiful day, an Indian sat in a saddle on the banks of the Arkansas, not far from James’ Peak, and gazed at an object which rapidly approached from the north-east.
That object appeared to be a horse, and the Pawnee watched it intently, with shaded eyes, as it rose and fell like a ball on the plain that separated them.
He did not speak or look at the beautiful girl whose waist his bare arm encircled, and held before him on his black steed.
She, too, saw the object which had attracted the savage’s attention, and when its identity was plainly revealed, the Pawnee started and uttered an exclamation of wonder.
Mabel Denison looked up at him, questioningly, curiously, but did not speak.
“The Pale Pawnee seeks the Apaches,” said the Indian, Wolf Eyes, in a low tone, which still bore traces of inward astonishment. “Why does he ride thither now? Has the storm of the chiefs broken overhead? and has he stolen from the Pawnees at night, and ridden like the wind from the lodges where he once reigned like a king?”
The approaching horseman answered Wolf Eyes’ questions, for when he suddenly checked the career of his beast, the Pawnee saw the burden the “buck-skin” bore. He glanced at Mabel, but, seeing that she had not recognized Lina Aiken, he kept his lips closed, and executed the Pawnee signal of peace with the rich sash which he had plundered from some New-Mexican hacienda in days gone by.
A peculiar motion proclaimed his identity, and presently the renegade rode forward again.
They met on the river’s bank, and a sharp cry of recognition rose from the throats of the captive girls.