Alan was not many minutes behind her.
Elk stopped his pony just outside the Cheyenne village to watch Alan's horse going across the open space from the fort to the hills. He had returned from the cañon by a roundabout way, and had escaped Bluebird's observation.
"He'll soon be there," he thought. An irrepressible shudder went through him. He could not see the rider at that distance, but the sun shone on the white horse, and he knew it was Alan's.
As he watched it the memory of a game of marbles he once had played with Alan came involuntarily to his mind. Yellow Stripe's boy had played generously. After the game he had presented Elk with a large bag of marbles. He was a brave white boy. Elk always had liked him until he had killed the bear.
Elk looked after the white speck irresolutely.
"Windfoot might get there even now before his slow horse," he was thinking. His heart beat hard; his body leaned unconsciously forward towards Alan.
Impelled by a sweep of changed feelings, he suddenly raised his quirt to start up his pony, when a dark hand fell with deaden force upon his arm.
Lone Dog's evil face looked up at him. "I've put the paint sticks and a looking-glass in the twisted tree," he whispered.
Elk looked at him undecidedly a moment. Then he heavily replied, "Very good," and turned his horse slowly in among the tepees under the cotton woods.
Lone Dog smiled satisfiedly as he limped home.