They were indistinguishable except as vocal sounds deadened by the impeding fog; but human voices they certainly were. Throwing off her robe she abruptly sat up, seeking, her features tensed with the strain. She beckoned to me. I scuttled over, as anxious as she. The voices might be far, they might be near; but it was an eerie situation, as if we were neighboring with warlocks.

“I’ve been hearing them some little while,” she whispered.

“The Captain Adams men may be trailing us?”

“I hope not! Oh, I hope not,” she gasped, in sheer agony. “If we might only know in time.”

Suddenly the fog was shot with gold, as the sun flashed in. In obedience to the command a slow and stately movement began, by all the troops of mist. The myriad elements drifted in unison, marching and countermarching and rearranging, until presently, while we crouched intent to fathom the secrets of their late camp, a wondrously beautiful phenomenon offered.

The great army rose for flight, lifting like a 273 blanket. Gradually the earth appeared in glimpses beneath their floating array, so that whereas our plot of higher ground was still invested, stooping low and scanning we could see beyond us by the extent of a narrow thinning belt capped with the heavier white.

“There!” she whispered, pointing. “Look! There they are!”

Feet, legs, moving of themselves, cut off at the knees by the fog layer, distant not more than short rifle range: that was what had been revealed. A peculiar, absurd spectacle of a score or two of amputated limbs now resurrected and blindly in quest of bodies.

“The Mormons!” I faltered.

“No! Leggins! Moccasins! They are Indians. We must leave right away before they see us.”

With our stuff she ran, I ran, for the mules. We worked rapidly, bridling and saddling while the fog rose with measured steadiness.

“Hurry!” she bade.

The whole desert was a golden haze when having packed we climbed aboard—she more spry than I, so that she led again.

As we urged outward the legs, behind, had taken to themselves thighs. But the mist briefly eddied down upon us; our mules’ hoofs made no sound appreciable, on the scantily moistened soil; we lost the legs, and the voices, and pressing the pace I rode beside her. 274

“Where?” I inquired.

“As far as we can while the fog hangs. Then we must hide in the first good place. If they don’t strike our trail we’ll be all right.”

The fog lingered in patches. From patch to patch we threaded, with many a glance over shoulder. But time was traveling faster. I marked her searching about nervously. Blue had already appeared above, the sun found us again and again, and the fog remnants went spinning and coiling, in last ghostly dance like that of frenzied wraiths.

Now we came to a rough outcrop of red sandstone, looming ruddily on our right. She quickly swerved for it.

“The best chance. I see nothing else,” she muttered. “We can tie the mules under cover, and wait. We’ll surely be spied if we keep on.”

“Couldn’t we risk it?”

“No. We’ve not start enough.”

In a moment we had gained the refuge. The sculptured rock masses, detached one from another, several jutting ten feet up, received us. We tied the mules short, in a nook at the rear; and we ourselves crawled on, farther in, until we lay snug amidst the shadowing buttresses, with the desert vista opening before us.

The fog wraiths were very few; the sun blazed more vehemently and wiped them out, so that through the marvelously clear air the expanse of lone, weird 275 country stood forth clean cut. No moving object could escape notice in this watchful void. And we had been just in time. The slight knoll had been left not a mile to the southwest. I heard My Lady catch breath, felt her hand find mine as we lay almost touching. Rounding the knoll there appeared a file of mounted figures; by their robes and blankets, their tufted lances and gaudy shields, yes, by the very way they sat their painted ponies, Indians unmistakably.

“They must have been camped near us all night.” And she shuddered. “Now if they only don’t cross our trail. We mustn’t move.”

They came on at a canter, riding bravely, glancing right and left—a score of them headed by a scarlet-blanketed man upon a spotted horse. So transparent was the air, washed by the fog and vivified by the sun, that I could decipher the color pattern of his shield emblazonry: a checkerboard of red and black.

“A war party. Sioux, I think,” she said. “Don’t they carry scalps on that first lance? They’ve been raiding the stage line. Do you see any squaws?”

“No,” I hazarded, with beating heart. “All warriors, I should guess.”

“All warriors. But squaws would be worse.”

On they cantered, until their paint stripes and daubs were hideously plain; we might note every detail of their savage muster. They were paralleling our outward course; indeed, seemed to be diverging from our ambush and making more to the west. And 276 I had hopes that, after all, we were safe. Then her hand clutched mine firmly. A wolf had leaped from covert in the path of the file; loped eastward across the desert, and instantly, with a whoop that echoed upon us like the crack of doom, a young fellow darted from the line in gay pursuit.

My Lady drew quick breath, with despairing exclamation.

“That is cruel, cruel! They might have ridden past; but now—look!”

The stripling warrior (he appeared to be scarcely more than a boy) hammered in chase, stringing his bow and plucking arrow. The wolf cast eye over plunging shoulder, and lengthened. Away they tore, while the file slackened, to watch. Our trail of flight bore right athwart the wolf’s projected route. There was just the remote chance that the lad would overrun it, in his eagerness; and for that intervening moment of grace we stared, fascinated, hand clasping hand.

“He’s found it! He’s found it!” she announced, in a little wail.

In mid-career the boy had checked his pony so shortly that the four hoofs ploughed the sand. He wheeled on a pivot and rode back for a few yards, scanning the ground, letting the wolf go. The stillness that had settled while we gazed and the file of warriors, reining, gazed, gripped and fairly hurt. I cursed the youth. Would to God he had stayed at home—God grant that mangy wolf died by trap or 277 poison. Our one chance made the sport of an accidental view-halloo, when all the wide desert was open.

The youth had halted again, leaning from his saddle pad. He raised, he flung up glad hand and commenced to ride in circles, around and around and around. The band galloped to him.

“Yes, he has found it,” she said. “Now they will come.”

“What shall we do?” I asked her.

And she answered, releasing my hand.

“I don’t know. But we must wait. We can stand them off for a while, I suppose——”

“I’ll do my best, with the revolver,” I promised.

“Yes,” she murmured. “But after that——?”

I had no reply. This contingency—we two facing Indians—was outside my calculations.

The Indians had grouped; several had dismounted, peering closely at our trail, reading it, timing it, accurately estimating it. They had no difficulty, for the hoof prints were hardly dried of the fog moisture. The others sat idly, searching the horizons with their eyes, but at confident ease. In the wide expanse this rock fortress of ours seemed to me to summon imperatively, challenging them. They surely must know. Yet there they delayed, torturing us, playing blind, emulating cat and mouse; but of course they were reasoning and making certain.

Now the dismounted warriors vaulted ahorse; at a 278 gesture from the chief two men rode aside, farther to the east, seeking other sign. They found none, and to his shrill hail they returned.

There was another command. The company had strung bows, stripped their rifles of the buckskin sheaths, had dropped robe and blanket about their loins; they spread out to right and left in close skirmish order; they advanced three scouts, one on the trail, one on either flank; and in a broadened front they followed with a discipline, an earnestness, a precision of purpose and a deadly anticipation that drowned every fleeting hope.

This was unbearable: to lie here awaiting an inevitable end.

“Shall we make a break for it?” I proposed. “Ride and fight? We might reach the train, or a stage station. Quick!”

In my wild desire for action I half arose. Her hand restrained me.

“It would be madness, Mr. Beeson. We’d stand no show at all in the open; not on these poor mules.” She murmured to herself. “Yes, they’re Sioux. That’s not so bad. Were they Cheyennes—dog-soldiers—— Let me think. I must talk with them.”

“But they’re coming,” I rasped. “They’re getting in range. We’ve the gun, and twenty cartridges. Maybe if I kill the chief——”

She spoke, positive, under breath. 279

“Don’t shoot! Don’t! They know we’re here—know it perfectly well. I shall talk with them.”

“You? How? Why? Can you persuade them? Would they let us go?”

“I’ll do what I can. I have a few words of Sioux; and there’s the sign language. See,” she said. “They’ve discovered our mules. They know we’re only two.”

The scouts on either flanks had galloped outward and onward, in swift circle, peering at our defenses. Lying low they scoured at full speed; with mutual whoop they crisscrossed beyond and turned back for the main body halted two hundred yards out upon the flat plain.

There was a consultation; on a sudden a great chorus of exultant cries rang, the force scattered, shaking fists and weapons, preparing for a tentative charge; and ere I could stop her My Lady had sprung upright, to mount upon a rock and all in view to hold open hand above her head. The sunshine glinted upon her hair; a fugitive little breeze bound her shabby gown closer about her slim figure.

They had seen her instantly. Another chorus burst, this time in astonishment; a dozen guns were leveled, covering her and our nest while every visage stared. But no shot belched; thank God, no shot, with me powerless to prevent, just as I was powerless to intercept her. The chief rode forward, at a walk, his hand likewise lifted.

“Keep down! Keep down, please,” she directed to me, while she stood motionless. “Let me try.”

The chief neared until we might see his every lineament—every item of his trappings, even to the black-tipped eagle feather erect at the part in his braids. And he rode carelessly, fearlessly, to halt within easy speaking distance; sat a moment, rifle across his leggined thighs and the folds of his scarlet blanket—a splendid man, naked from the waist up, his coppery chest pigment-daubed, his slender arms braceleted with metal, his eyes devouring her so covetously that I felt the gloating thoughts behind them.

He called inquiringly: a greeting and a demand in one, it sounded. She replied. And what they two said, in word and sign, I could not know, but all the time I held my revolver upon him, until to my relief he abruptly wheeled his horse and cantered back to his men, leaving me with wrist aching and heart pounding madly.

She stepped lightly down; answered my querying look.

“It’s all right. I’m going, and so are you,” she said, with a faint smile, oddly subtle—a tremulous smile in a white face.

About her there was a mystery which alarmed me; made me sit up, chilled, to eye her and accuse.

“Where? We are free, you mean? What’s the bargain?” 282

“I go to them. You go where you choose—to the stage road, of course. I have his promise.”

This brought me to my feet, rigid; more than scandalized, for no word can express the shock.

“You go to them? And then where?”

She answered calmly, flushing a little, smiling a little, her eyes sincere.

“It’s the best way and the only way. We shall neither of us be harmed, now. The chief will provide for me and you yourself are free. No, no,” she said, checking my first indignant cry. “Really I don’t mind. The Indians are about the only persons left to me. I’ll be safe with them.” She laughed rather sadly, but brightened. “I don’t know but that I prefer them to the whites. I told you I had no place. And this saves you also, you see. I got you into it—I’ve felt that you blamed me, almost hated me. Things have been breaking badly for me ever since we met again in Benton. So it’s up to me to make good. You can go home, and I shall not be unhappy, I think. Please believe that. The wife of a great chief is quite a personage—he won’t inquire into my past. But if we try to stay here you will certainly be killed, and I shall suffer, and we shall gain nothing. You must take my money. Please do. Then good-bye. I told him I would come out, under his promise.”

She and the rocks reeled together. That was my eyes, giddy with a rush of blood, surging and hot. 283

“Never, never, never!” I was shouting, ignoring her hand. How she had misjudged me! What a shame she had put upon me! I could not credit. “You shall not—I tell you, you sha’n’t. I won’t have it—it’s monstrous, preposterous. You sha’n’t go, I sha’n’t go. But wherever we go we’ll go together. We’ll stand them off. Then if they can take us, let ’em. You make a coward of me—a dastard. You’ve no right to. I’d rather die.”

“Listen,” she chided, her hand grasping my sleeve. “They would take me anyway—don’t you see? After they had killed you. It would be the worse for both of us. What can you do, with one arm, and a revolver, and an unlucky woman? No, Mr. Beeson (she was firm and strangely formal); the cards are faced up. I have closed a good bargain for both of us. When you are out, you need say nothing. Perhaps some day I may be ransomed, should I wish to be. But we can talk no further now. He is impatient. The money—you will need the money, and I shall not. Please turn your back and I’ll get at my belt. Why,” she laughed, “how well everything is coming. You are disposed of, I am disposed of——”

“Money!” I roared. “God in Heaven! You disposed of? I disposed of? And my honor, madam! What of that?”

“And what of mine, Mr. Beeson?” She stamped her foot, coloring. “Will you turn your back, 284 or——? Oh, we’ve talked too long. But the belt you shall have. Here——” She fumbled within her gown. “And now, adios and good luck. You shall not despise me.”

The chief was advancing accompanied by a warrior. Behind him his men waited expectant, gathered as an ugly blotch upon the dun desert. Her honor? The word had double meaning. Should she sacrifice the one honor in this crude essay to maintain the other which she had not lost, to my now opened eyes? I could not deliver her tender body over to that painted swaggerer—any more than I could have delivered it over to Daniel himself. At last I knew, I knew. History had written me a fool, and a cad, but it should not write me a dastard. We were together, and together we should always be, come weal or woe, life or death.

The money belt had been dropped at my feet. She had turned—I leaped before her, thrust her to rear, answered the hail of the pausing chief.

“No!” I squalled. And I added for emphasis: “You go to hell.”

He understood. The phrase might have been familiar English to him. I saw him stiffen in his saddle; he called loudly, and raised his rifle, threatening; with a gasp—a choked “Good-bye”—she darted by me, running on for the open and for him. She and he filled all my landscape. In a stark blinding rage of fear, chagrin, rancorous jealousy, I leveled revolver 285 and pulled trigger, but not at her, though even that was not beyond me in the crisis.

The bullet thwacked smartly; the chief uttered a terrible cry, his rifle was tossed high, he bowed, swayed downward, his comrade grabbed him, and they were racing back closely side by side and she was running back to me and the warriors were shrieking and brandishing their weapons and bullets spatted the rocks—all this while yet my hand shook to the recoil of the revolver and the smoke was still wafting from the poised muzzle.

What had I done? But done it was.