and panting, they came
to a stop.

It was then that they first perceived that they were not without
a circle of appreciative spectators. Sitting like statues on their
sniffing, pawing ponies, a dozen Piute Indians encircled them. Engrossed
with the dance and with each other, they had not noticed them as they
rode up, attracted from their route by this marvelous spectacle of a
pale-face squaw and brave engaged in a solitary war dance in the midst
of the desert.

At sight of the grim circle of centaurs around them Miss Dwyer would
have fainted but for Lombard's firm hold.

"Pretend not to see them; keep on dancing," he hissed in her ear. He had
no distinct plan in what he said, but spoke merely from an instinct of
self-preservation, which told him that when they stopped, the Indians
would be upon them. But as she mechanically, and really more dead
than alive, obeyed his direction and resumed the dance, and he in his
excitement was treading on her feet at every step, the thought flashed
upon him that there was a bare chance of escaping violence, if they
could keep the Indians interested without appearing to notice their
presence. In successive whispers he communicated his idea to Miss Dyer:
"Don't act as if you saw them at all, but do everything as if we were
alone. That will puzzle them, and make them think us supernatural
beings, or perhaps crazy: Indians have great respect for crazy people.
It's our only chance. We will stop dancing now, and sing awhile. Give
them a burlesque of opera. I 'll give you the cues and show you how.
Don't be frightened. I don't believe they 'll touch us so long as we act
as if we did n't see them. Do you understand? Can you do your part?"

"I understand; I 'll try," she whispered.

"Now," he said, and as they separated, he threw his hat on the ground,
and, assuming an extravagantly languishing attitude, burst forth in a
most poignant burlesque of a lovelorn tenor's part, rolling his eyes,
clasping his hands, striking his breast, and gyrating about Miss
Dwyer-in the most approved operatic style. He had a fine voice and knew
a good deal of music; so that, barring a certain nervousness in the
performer, the exhibition was really not bad. In his singing he had used
a meaningless gibberish varied with the syllables of the scale, but he
closed by singing the words, "Are you ready now? Go ahead, then."

With that she took it up, and rendered the prima donna quite as
effectively, interjecting