Over among the thickets across the pool the
voice of an Indian girl was uplifted in some weird, uncanny song. The
voice was shrill, yet not unmusical. The song was savage, yet not
lacking some crude harmony. She could not see the singer, but she
knew. Natzie's people had returned to the agency, accepting the olive
branch that Plume had tendered them--Natzie herself was here.
At the first sound of the uplifted voice an Apache boy, crouching in
the shrubbery at the edge of the pool, rose quickly to his feet, and,
swift and noiseless, stole away into the thicket. If he thought to
conceal himself or his purpose his caution was needless. Angela
neither saw nor heard him. Neither was it the song nor the singer that
now arrested her attention. So still was the air, so deep was the
silence of nature, that even on such sandy roads and bridlepaths as
traversed the winding valley, the faintest hoof-beat was carried far.
Another horse, another rider, was quickly coming. Tonto, the big hound
nearest her, lifted his shapely head and listened a moment, then went
bounding away through the willows, followed swiftly by his mate. They
knew the hoof-beats, and joyously ran to meet and welcome the rider.
Angela knew them quite as well, but could neither run to meet, nor
could she fly.
Only twice, as yet, had she opportunity to see or to thank Neil
Blakely, and a week had passed since her straightforward challenge to
Aunt Janet.
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