His arms were around her now, and he was kissing her almost frantically.
Slowly she opened her eyes. "I know it is you when you speak, and when my eyes are shut. When I open them you are very old. My father was young and handsome. His hair was not white."
"Rita, darling, it has been just as white as it is now ever since the morning after I came home and found that the Apaches had carried you away. They killed your mother, and I heard that they had killed you too. I have been an old man ever since, but I think I shall grow young again now."
Time was precious. They could only spare enough for a few hurried questions and answers, and Murray glanced rapidly over the pages of the three magazines.
"Let me take them," he said. "I would like to read them carefully. I shall know what to say to the chief. You must not let anybody know I am your father—not till the right time comes."
"Oh, why not?"
"Because the Apaches would know then that I am their enemy, and have good reason to be. Even if they did not kill me at once, they would not trust me, and I want them to do that. It is my only hope of carrying you away with me. Stay here in the lodge till you are sure your face will not betray you."
She had been crying more copiously than her father, and that would have been a thing to be explained to Ni-ha-be and Dolores. Rita therefore remained in the lodge while Murray, with a great effort, recovered his usual calm self-control, and walked slowly and dignifiedly out. He needed to put on all the dignity he was master of, for his heart was thump-thumping against his ribs, and his brain was in a whirl as to when and how he should be able to claim and carry on the great treasure he had found.
Treasure! The Buckhorn Mine, piled mountain high with twenty-dollar pieces, was nothing to it.