“Not while a Modoc lives to fight the blue-coats!”
“The pale girl is Harry’s. What will he do with her?”
“Take her to the little cave which Mouseh knows is Harry’s.”
“It is well. But when the day comes, meet us here. As you say, the blue-coats will come to-morrow, and we must meet them.”
“I will be here,” said the spy. “When New York Harry turns on Mouseh, may the Great Spirit strike him with His bolts of fire.”
Then the Indian turned and glided from the cave as noiselessly as he had entered.
He hurried away as though some important errand demanded immediate attention, and a few minutes later he confronted the three guards who stood before the cavern that contained Artena and our whiter heroine.
A brief conversation with the guards enabled him to step into the lighted place, and he confronted the captives with an exclamatory salutation.
During the day just passed the imprisoned twain had slept but little, although nature needed repose. The phantom of doom that hovered over their heads served to keep their eyes painfully open, and their thoughts were not of an enviable nature. Their guards had been as reticent as statues concerning the designs of Mouseh against their persons, but the women felt that at any moment the messenger of death might arrive from the chief, and they would greet him with open eyes—with every sense alive, keenly so.
’Reesa sprung to her feet when New York Harry’s exclamation fell upon their ears; but Artena remained on the couch and looked searchingly up into his eyes.