He drove them down the trail, which here curved and wound round and over the hills, dipping and rising and losing itself in many a charming spot. Lena Forest looked hungrily ahead, whenever a rise of the trail gave her an extended view, always hoping to see there white horsemen. At first this crafty maneuver of Lightfoot’s puzzled her, for he seemed to be going toward the town, when she naturally anticipated that he would wish to keep as far from it as possible. But soon she began to understand, when she saw, by glancing back, that the hoofprints of the horses and his own moccasin tracks were lost in the other tracks, which, in such numbers, had beaten the ground hard as flint. She saw, too, that it was probably his purpose to leave this main trail at some point, after utilizing it all he could, and that he would then strike again into the rocky hills, and hold his course toward the Blackfoot village. The white girl and the Indian maid talked little as the horses were thus driven on. Lena Forest had about lost hope of being able to persuade this Indian girl to help her; and she thought it not wise, anyway, to express her desires when Lightfoot could hear, for he had shown a pretty clear understanding of English. Though the Blackfeet were now threatening a bloody war on the whites, there had been in the recent past so much intercourse and trading between the two races that most of the Blackfeet, men and women, had picked up a fair smattering of the language of the white men, so that they could understand it at least in its simpler forms. By and by the fear of the pursuers he believed to be following became so strong in the mind of the young Indian chief that once more he left his prisoner in charge of the Indian girl, and stole away for the purpose of climbing a hill, that he might look backward over the way he had come. The place selected for leaving the horses and the prisoner was a dark hollow, where the trail made a quick bend round rocks, and where bushes, growing in each side of the trail, made good cover. Those bushes shut him from sight of the prisoner and the Indian girl almost as soon as he started on his way. Lena Forest was about to begin her petitions again, and was trying to summon enough courage to try to make an escape if there was another refusal, when the bushes near by rustled, and a young man stood forth, leveling a revolver at Wind Flower. “Don’t move!” he commanded. The face of the girl prisoner became white as chalk when she saw him, and she seemed about to slide in a faint from her horse; but she maintained her balance, and whispered: “Bruce! Oh, save me, dear!” The Indian girl became rigid as stone from fear; her black eyes opening in fright when she looked into the muzzle of that revolver. Her lips trembled and opened, as if she meant to call for help. “Don’t move!” came the command again. The young white man, dressed in miner’s clothing, stepped out quickly.