CHAPTER XXVII “I—AM—BUT—AN—INDIAN” Mauchacho was permitted to choose his own trail and pace. His rider did not notice when he stopped to nibble at some tempting grass, or stretched his neck for a few remaining green leaves. A loud neigh startled the girl from her lethargy, and she discovered a saddled horse standing near the entrance to her “den.” At first she felt a slight alarm, then saw that it was one of the ranch horses. Dismounting, and leaving her horse with trailing reins, she hurried to learn the cause of the empty saddle. A cry escaped her, as directly at the opening of the tiny cavern she came face to face with Henry West. At first she scarcely believed it was he, so changed did he seem. His straight, black hair was in matted disorder; great seams lined his brow and chin; the erstwhile white silken shirt lay torn back from his throat, soiled and begrimed; his sombrero, twisted into a shapeless mass, was clutched in his hands, while the great, black, shaggy “chapps” made him seem like some formidable creature. He stared at Bess benumbed and uncomprehending. Why was she here? Why had she not gone with him whom she had wedded? Was it a ghost come to bring still greater agony? Slowly stretching forth his hand, fearful lest the apparition should vanish, he felt it grasped eagerly by one pulsating with warm, pulsing life. She lifted her eyes to his with an assuring gaze as she spoke: “It is really I—Bess Fletcher! I have been saved from ignominy by Grace Morton’s living death—by the broken heart of Helen West.” “You knew!” gasped Henry West, stepping back abruptly. “How could I have known? Fate, at an almost fatal moment, disclosed the perfidy which you had so cowardly concealed.” “Yes, a coward—a damned coward, who could not tell of his only sister’s dishonor to save you—even you, from a life of misery! Since early dawn have I fought here for the courage to go to you, to tell you, but I dared not; had I seen that—that dog again, he would have been killed,” came in a frenzied outburst, as Henry clasped his hand over his holster. “This same bullet has been waiting—for nearly two years,” he said, as he withdrew the gun and held it in his palm. Bess reached out her hand. Taking the treacherous weapon and emptying the chambers, she gave it back to West. “There, Henry, you will not need it now; he has gone.” “Gone! Yes, I was told yesterday that his resignation was not voluntary; another man is already at the agency to fill the position.” “Where are you going alone?” asked Henry West, as the girl remounted and turned Mauchacho’s head toward the rugged north shore of the lake. “Where my horse may take me. Your mother is looking for you at home,” answered Miss Fletcher, in a hard voice, as she bent her head beneath the branches of a small pine and rode away.