"Will you wait--one moment?" he suddenly asked. "I'll go to the rocks
yonder and call her," and then, almost as suddenly, the voice was
again uplifted in the same weird, barbaric song, and the singer had
gone from the depths of the opposite thicket and was somewhere farther
up stream, still hidden from their gaze--still, possibly, ignorant of
Angela's presence. The brown eyes were at the moment following the
tall, white form, moving slowly through the winding, faintly-worn
pathway toward the upper shallows where, like stepping stones, the big
rocks stretched from shore to shore, and she was startled to note that
the moment the song began he stopped short a second or two, listened
intently, then almost sprang forward in his haste to reach the
crossing. Another minute and he was out of sight among the shrubbery.
Another, and she heard the single shot of a revolver, and there he
stood at the rocky point, a smoking pistol in his hand. Instantly the
song ceased, and then his voice was uplifted, calling, "Natzie!
Natzie!" With breathless interest Angela gazed and, presently, parting
the shrubbery with her little brown hands, the Indian girl stepped
forth into the light and stood in silence, her great black eyes fixed
mournfully upon him. Could this be their mountain princess--the
daring, the resolute, the commanding? Could this be the fierce,
lissome, panther-like creature before whose blow two of their stoutest
men had fallen? There was dejection inexpressible in her very
attitude.
Pages:
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342