“Steady now!” Barlow whispered in the ear of the girl. “I told you that the Cheyennes were on the warpath, which you doubted. We have blundered into a body of them. But luckily I know their leader. He is a young buck I once saved from a wolf, after he had been badly scratched up by the brute, and he hasn’t forgot it. It’s the thing that will help us, and finally save us. But you’ll have to do as I say, or we’ll never come out of this alive.” He wanted to impress the girl with a sense of her danger, and also with a sense of his truthfulness and kindly intentions. The Cheyennes moved forward, clustering round the prisoners. Having secured temporarily his own safety, and also having no longer to contend with the frantic struggles of May Arlington, whom fright had subjugated for the time, Barlow transferred her to one of his led horses, and so was rid of her weight, which had begun to grow irksome. Now that she was actually in the hands of the savages whom she had so long dreaded, May Arlington began to show something of the spirit of a heroine. She did not know how much of Barlow’s statements were true or false, but she did know that she was a prisoner of the Cheyennes. Apparently Barlow’s statement that they had gone on the warpath were true. Judging by that, it might be that his statement that he was taking her from the fort in order to protect her was also true, though she could not yet believe it. But whatever was true or false, she realized that she must try now to escape; and to do that she would need all her strength, energy, and coolness. She must, therefore, learn self-control! No longer could she throw herself about, as she had been doing, for that was exhausting. It would also be quite useless with these Indians. Their bloody practice was to bury a tomahawk in the head of a prisoner if that prisoner became troublesome. She bent toward Barlow as the cavalcade galloped on. “Can we escape?” she whispered. He leaned toward her, to hear what she said; and she repeated the question. “I think so, later,” he whispered in answer. “We shall have to be careful. They’re treating us well now because of what I did for Red Wing; but if they find us tricky they’ll be severe with us. I’m trying to think out a plan. I’ll save you; and some day you will know that I’m not the black devil you’ve been thinking me.” That was a long and wearing ride for May Arlington; it taxed her strength to the utmost. To be hurried forward through the gloom of night surrounded by feathered Indians who are on the warpath, having for a companion a white man whose actions had been brutal and seemed to be treacherous, was a situation about as bad as can be conceived. Yet May Arlington tried to endure it without a murmur, and even tried to cherish hope, and to think of some plan herself whereby a release might be brought about. When daylight came the Indians were still in motion, and the girl was almost ready to drop from her saddle.