Then, all in a second, with one half-stifled,
inarticulate cry, Natzie wrenched her hand from that of Blakely, and,
with the spring of a tigress, bounded away. Just at the edge of the
pool she halted, whirled about, tore from her bosom a flat, oblong
packet and hurled it at his feet; then, with the dart of a
frightened deer, drove through the northward willows. Angela saw her
run blindly up the bank, leaping thence to the rocks below, bounding
from one to another with the wild grace of the antelope. Another
instant and she had reached the opposite shore, and there, tossing her
arms wildly above her head, her black tresses streaming behind her,
with a cry that was almost a scream, she plunged into the heart of the
thicket; the stubborn branches closed behind her, and our Apache queen
was gone. As they met, so had they parted, by the waters of the pool.
[Illustration: "NATZIE WRENCHED HER HAND FROM THAT OF BLAKELY, AND
WITH THE SPRING OF A TIGRESS BOUNDED AWAY"]
When Blakely turned again to Angela she, too, was gone. He found her a
little later, her arms twined about her pony's neck, her face buried
in his mane, and sobbing as though her heart would break.
On a soft, starlit evening within the week, no longer weeping, but
leaning on Blakely's arm, Angela stood at the edge of the bluff,
looking far out over the Red Rock country to the northeast.
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