She lifted Evan Harris right hand, and Rafe Todd tremblingly sought the pulses.
“Well well,” he said, “he is not dead,” and then he turned to the Indians.
“Miwah,” he called, and a giant Indian, known to readers of the Modoc war as the Curly-Headed Doctor, came forward.
“The pale fellow is not dead,” continued the deserter, addressing the medicine-man of his adopted people. “If you can get him up again, do so. He may be of service to us.”
As he spoke he gave Miwah a look, which said: “See that you kill him,” and then turned to ’Reesa again.
“Now, girl,” he said, “you will seek your chamber. I pledge my word of honor that if the spark of life in him can be fanned into a flame, it shall be done.”
The scout’s daughter smiled; the thought of Rafe Todd possessing honor was quite enough to provoke a smile; but she did not say any thing, and rose to her feet.
“We have visitors,” said the deserter, in a low voice, as he led the white girl—his blood-bought captive—toward the Klamaths. “They’re Klamaths,” and here his lips curled with a sneer of contempt, “and I was surprised to see them. Look! are they not fine-looking fellows, ’Reesa?”
The Indians, knowing that the deserter was conducting the girl to a smaller compartment, made way, and presently the twain found themselves face to face with the runners.
On the part of one runner—Wiaquil—the same immobility of countenance remained; but his companion started slightly when his eyes fell upon our white heroine.