“I would like to ask you a few questions,” he said. “General Lodge here informed me that you saved my—my daughter’s life long ago.... Can you tell me what became of her mother?”
“She was in the caravan—massacred by Sioux,” replied Neale. “I saw her buried. Her grave is not so many miles from here.”
Then a tremor changed Allison Lee’s expression. He turned away an instant: his hand closed tight; he bit his lips. This evidence of feeling in him relaxed the stony scrutiny of the watchers, and they shifted uneasily on their feet.
Allie stood watching—waiting, with her heart at her lips.
“Where did you take my daughter?” queried Lee, presently.
“To the home of a trapper. My friend—Slingerland,” replied Neale, indicating the buckskin-clad figure. “She lived there—slowly recovering. You don’t know that she lost her mind—for a while. But she recovered.... And during an absence of Slingerland’s—she was taken away.”
“Were you and she—sweethearts?”
“Yes.”
“And engaged to marry?”
“Of course,” replied Neale, dreamily.