"I WOULD RATHER HAVE DIED WITH HIM."
Not till they had covered at least two miles could Yseulte Santorex
regain the slightest control over her recalcitrant steed. In fact, in
her fatigue and nervousness it was as much as ever she could do to keep
her seat at all. At length, panting and breathless, she reined in and
turned round upon the scout, who had kept close upon her pony's heels.
"I am going back," she cried, her great eyes flashing with anger and
contempt. "I would sooner die than desert a--a friend."
"Not to be done, miss," was the quiet answer. "Vipan said to me the
last thing--`Bill, on your life take her safe in.' And on my life I
will. You bet."
Yseulte looked at him again. A thought struck her and she seemed to
waver.
"See here, miss," went on the scout. "Vipan and I have hunted and
trapped and prospected together and stood off the reds a goodish number
of years. We are pardners, we are, and if he entrusts me with an
undertaking of this kind, I've got to see it through. Same thing with
him. So the sooner we reach Fort Vigilance, where I'm going to take
you, and you're safe among the people there, the sooner I shall be able
to double back and try what can be done for Vipan."
"Oh, I never thought of that. Pray do not let us lose a moment."
"So. That's reasonable. You see, miss, it's this way. Women are
terrible dead-weights when it comes to fightin' Indians. The
varmints'll risk more for a white woman than for all the scalps and
plunder in this Territory rolled together. No. Like enough, now that
you're snug away, they'll turn round and give up my pard as `bad
medicine.' I reckon there ain't a man between Texas and the British
line knows Indians better than my pardner. One day he's fighting 'em,
another day he's smokin' in their lodges. He knows 'em, he does."
With this she was forced to be content.
Loyalty to his friend thus moved him to reassure her, but, as a matter
of fact, the honest scout felt rather bitter towards this girl. He
blamed her entirely for his comrade's peril. He had narrowly watched
that comrade of late, and accurately gauged the state of the latter's
feelings. Why had this fine lady come out there and played the fool
with his comrade--the man with whom he had hunted and trapped for
years--with whom he had fought shoulder to shoulder in many a fierce
scrimmage with white or red enemies? They had stood by each other
through thick and thin, and now this English girl had come in the way,
and to satisfy her vanity had sent Vipan to his death--his death,
possibly, amid the ghastly torments of the Indian stake. She would
probably go home again and brag of her "conquest" with a kind of
patronising pity.
In silence they kept on their way--the scout's watchful glance ever on
the alert. Suddenly his companion's voice aroused him from the
intensity of his vigilance. He started.
"Tell me," she said. "What chance is there of rescuing your friend?"
Her tone was so calm, so self-possessed, that in spite of the deathly
pallor of her face it deceived the worthy scout. He felt hard as iron
towards her.
"About as much chance, I judge, as I have of being elected President,"
he replied, gruffly. "And now I want you to know this--If you hadn't
troubled your dainty head about my pard, he wouldn't be where he is now.
And mind me, if it hadn't been for him, where d'you think you'd be
to-day? You'd be wishing you were dead. You'd be doin' scavenger work
in a Sioux village, leading a dog's life at the hands of every sooty
squaw in the camp--if it hadn't been for Vipan. And now if the Lord
works an almighty miracle and I get my pard clear of the red devils,
maybe you won't say overmuch to him if you meet him--won't be
over-anxious to say you're glad to see him safe and sound again--"
The speaker pulled up short, staring blankly at her. She had burst into
a wild storm of sobs.
"You are unjust. Oh, God! Oh, God! send him back to me!" Then turning
to the dumbfoundered scout, and controlling herself to speak firmly:
"Listen. If it would save his life I would cheerfully undergo death at
this moment. I would suffer the slow fire or anything. Think what you
like of me--God knows I speak the truth."
"Say that again, miss," stammered the other. "Well, I ask your pardon.
I allow I don't know shucks of the ways of women. If it's to be done,
my pard'll be brought out. What shall I tell him if so be I find him?"
he added, as if struck with a bright idea.
"Tell him," and her voice shook with a tenderness she now no longer
cared to conceal, "tell him to come straight to me wherever I am. And
if--ah, I cannot think of it--I would rather have died with him!"
Thus the secret of her tortured heart escaped her in that cry of
anguish; not to a sister woman, but to the rough and weather-beaten
frontiersman who was piloting her across that grim and peril-haunted
wilderness.
Again she relapsed into silence, and her escort noted that her tears
were falling thick and fast. Suddenly she asked about the attack upon
the waggon train.
Smokestack Bill felt in a quandary. She had gone through so much
already, she still had need of all her strength, all her nerve, before
she should reach the distant frontier post to which he was guiding her.
What would happen if he were to tell her the horrible news that they two
were the sole survivors of the ill-fated caravan; that he owed his
escape from the hideous massacre to the same cause as she did her own--
accidental absence? He felt unequal to the task, and evaded the
necessity of replying by the invention of a somewhat cowardly pretext,
to wit, the imperative advisability of preserving silence as far as
possible.