veils let down over the windows of a soul, images of
hell limned forever on a mind. Then that film, that unseeing cold thing,
like the shade of sleep or of death, passed from her eyes. Now they
suddenly were alive, great dark-violet gulfs, full of shadows, dilating,
changing into exquisite and beautiful lights.

"I'm a white man!" he said, tensely. "You're saved! The Indians are
gone!"

She understood him. She realized the meaning of his words. Then, with
a low, agonized, and broken cry she shut her eyes tight and reached
blindly out with both hands; she screamed aloud. Shock claimed her
again. Horror and fear convulsed her, and it must have been fear that
was uppermost. She clutched Neale with fingers of steel, in a grip he
could not have loosened without breaking her bones.

"Red, you saw--she was right in her mind for a moment--you saw?" burst
out Neale.

"Shore I saw. She's only scared now," replied King. "It must hev been
hell fer her."

At this juncture Slingerland came riding up to them. "Did she come
around?" he inquired, curiously gazing at the girl as she clung to
Neale.

"Yes, for a moment," replied Neale.

"Wal, thet's good.... I caught up with Dillon. Told him. He was mighty
glad we found her. Cussed his troopers some. Said he'd explain your
absence, an' we could send over fer anythin'."

"Let's go, then," said Neale. He tried to loosen the girl's hold on him,
but had to give it up. Taking her in his arms, he rose and went toward
his horse. King had to help him mount with his burden. Neale did not
imagine he would ever forget that spot, but he took another long look to
fix the scene indelibly on his memory. The charred wagons, the graves,
the rocks over which the naked, gashed bodies had been flung, the three
scraggy trees close together, and the ledge with the dark aperture at
the base--he gazed at them all, and then turned his horse to follow
Slingerland.

6

Some ten miles from the scene of the massacre and perhaps fifteen from
the line surveyed by the engineers, Slingerland lived in a wild valley
in the heart of the Wyoming hills.

The ride there was laborsome and it took time, but Neale scarcely noted
either fact. He paid enough attention to the trail to fix landmarks
and turnings in his mind, so that he would remember how to find the
way there again. He was, however, mostly intent upon the girl he was
carrying.

Twice that he knew of her eyes opened during the ride. But it was