"War Hawk has a heart to feel, and also is brave to dare. Now be still. Shall he trust you to ride?"
It was during the momentary halt that this conversation took place. She, seeing nothing to be gained by refusing, answered by an affirmative motion of the head. In a moment she was transferred to the back of a mustang, and all the preparations for blinding the trail having already been made before she was fairly settled to a seat, both parties had moved off. Unlearned as she was in wood and prairie-craft, she had no difficulty in perceiving that an effort was being made to deceive those who might follow after. From the smallness of the number of men engaged in the affair, she did not doubt but that more than ever, the red-skins intended to employ stratagem in preference to force in their retreat. They knew, as well as did Edith, that, as the trapping season was just about to open, there was an unusually large number of hunters at Back Load Ranche. Doubtless, also, they believed that pursuit would be immediately made.
For a time the pace was moderate. So slow did they seem to be progressing, that Edith had hopes for a time of hearing the footsteps of Martin and his men thundering on in their wake. She did not believe War Hawk would execute his dark threat, even though she was aware that prisoners had been killed to prevent their rescue or escape.
This slow rate of progress did not long continue. Again they were hastening on, all attempts at concealment of their route being thrown aside. They swept across the prairie for hours. The moon sunk in the west, the night grew darker around them, but with untiring energy they dashed on.
There is no need to chronicle in detail the history of the flight. The night passed; the day broke, and still they pressed ahead. No living human being crossed their path. There were no certain signs of pursuit. Once, from the actions of the Indians, Edith had her attention specially turned backward. She thought she caught, through the marvelously clear prairie atmosphere, a glimpse of three dark objects miles away. It might be a little clump of horsemen—more likely a herd of antelope or elk.
They rode in silence. Neither the captive nor the captors felt much disposition to converse. A feeling of suspense and uncertainty was brooding in the minds of both. Edith, even, began to look forward with a dim yearning for the time to halt to arrive. Weariness began to oppress her, sleep to try at her eyelids.
At length they left the prairie; crossing a shallow stream, they went up its bank for some distance; then, turning away from it, and picking their way for perhaps half a mile over uneven and stony ground, they entered a defile which, under the name of Straight Cañon, led through the rocky range before them. In its gloomy recesses the spirits of Edith sunk again. She would have prayed for a halt, had she not been so unwilling to show weakness. Perhaps it was purely pride—perhaps it was from good judgment. Physically so frail-looking she had the will to brave fatigue. Had she allowed herself to falter at all, the result would have been utter prostration.
War Hawk seemed at length to have an idea that he was, perhaps, tasking his captive beyond her powers of endurance. More than once he scanned her features narrowly. Her naturally pale cheek seemed to be no paler; there was no tremor in her hands; her eyes blazed as brightly as ever.
"If the White Bird is worn out, let her ask and she shall stop. There is no danger. She can rest. But a little further on, we come to a long halt."
Without hesitation she responded: