Wolf Eyes caught his king’s enthusiasm, and uttered an exclamation of joy.
“If Gold Feather still lived, Wolf Eyes would not ride to Apache land,” said the Indian, suddenly relapsing into seriousness again.
“Yes,” and there was a flash in the midnight eyes. “Wolf Eyes found him wounded once on the banks of the Platte--wounded by a buffalo bull; and he tossed him into the water. The Manitou’s lights shone then, and Wolf Eyes saw his enemy sink to the swallowing sand. He rode toward the Pawnee lodges to slay Wolf Eyes, but the buffalo stretched him by the clear water.
“Then, of course, you’ll be safe among the Apaches, and I will stand by you. But, if Gold Feather was alive I could not rescue you from his vengeance.”
A moment later the girls, who, during this time, had conversed in low tones, were gently separated by the renegade.
Before departing, they surveyed the land that stretched from them to the north and east, and the last rays of the setting sun fell upon the two captors fording the Arkansas, with their horses’ heads turned toward Apachedom.
Long, lone and drearisome days had intervened between Tom Kyle’s escape from Frontier Shack, and meeting with Wolf Eyes on the bank of the Arkansas.
He had encountered wandering bands of Indians; but, aided by his knowledge of plains life, he had managed to elude them. Once he narrowly escaped running into an emigrant train, which Lucy Aiken had signaled, hoping thereby to escape from his clutches. The signal was seen, a number of men had pursued the fugitive, but he outgeneraled them completely.
After leaving the Arkansas in their rear they did not fear pursuit. Tom Kyle knew that the boys would not attempt to follow, when their friend the trapper was dead, for he believed that his ball had penetrated Shackelford’s brain, instead of merely grazing his temple, and rendering him half-paralyzed, as was the case. And, with the start which he had from the Pawnee village, he felt assured that his red enemies could not overtake him, even if they were to ride their swiftest horses.
“They didn’t want my blood, particularly,” he would murmur, when he thought about such matters as I have just penned; “they wanted me out of their way, and they ought to be satisfied now. Ha! didn’t I outwit Red Eagle! I never shoot at a creature twice. He won’t step into the Pale Pawnee’s moccasins, and that leads me to think that blood will flow over the question, ‘Who shall succeed Tom Kyle as ruler of the Loups?’”