Part 46

He put his hand to his neck hurriedly. His necktie was loose, and had twisted to one side in the struggle. He colored quite as much from the sensitiveness of a studiously neat man as from the fear of discovery. “And what's that?” she added, pointing to the shawl.

“One of my samples that I suppose was turned out of the coach and forgotten in the transfer,” he said glibly. “I thought it might keep you warm.”

She looked at it dubiously and laid it gingerly aside. “You don't mean to say you go about with such things OPENLY?” she said querulously.

“Yes; one mustn't lose a chance of trade, you know,” he resumed with a smile.

“And you haven't found this journey very profitable,” she said dryly. “You certainly are devoted to your business!” After a pause, discontentedly: “It's quite night already--we can't sit here in the dark.”

“We can take one of the coach lamps inside; they're still there. I've been thinking the matter over, and I reckon if we leave one lighted outside the coach it may guide your friends back.” He HAD considered it, and believed that the audacity of the act, coupled with the knowledge the Indians must have of the presence of the soldiers in the vicinity, would deter rather than invite their approach.

She brightened considerably with the coach lamp which he lit and brought inside. By its light she watched him curiously. His face was slightly flushed and his eyes very bright and keen looking. Man killing, except with old professional hands, has the disadvantage of affecting the circulation.

But Miss Cantire had noticed that the flask smelt of whiskey. The poor man had probably fortified himself from the fatigues of the day.

“I suppose you are getting bored by this delay,” she said tentatively.

“Not at all,” he replied. “Would you like to play cards? I've got a pack in my pocket. We can use the middle seat as a table, and hang the lantern by the window strap.”

She assented languidly from the back seat; he was on the front seat, with the middle seat for a table between them. First Mr. Boyle showed her some tricks with the cards and kindled her momentary and flashing interest in a mysteriously evoked but evanescent knave. Then they played euchre, at which Miss Cantire cheated adorably, and Mr. Boyle lost game after game shamelessly. Then once or twice Miss Cantire was fain to put her cards to her mouth to conceal an apologetic yawn, and her blue-veined eyelids grew heavy. Whereupon Mr. Boyle suggested that she should make herself comfortable in the corner of the coach with as many cushions as she liked and the despised shawl, while he took the night air in a prowl around the coach and a lookout for the returning party. Doing so, he was delighted, after a turn or two, to find her asleep, and so returned contentedly to his sentry round.

He was some distance from the coach when a low moaning sound in the thicket presently increased until it rose and fell in a prolonged howl that was repeated from the darkened plains beyond. He recognized the voice of wolves; he instinctively felt the sickening cause of it. They had scented the dead bodies, and he now regretted that he had left his own victim so near the coach. He was hastening thither when a cry, this time human and more terrifying, came from the coach. He turned towards it as its door flew open and Miss Cantire came rushing toward him. Her face was colorless, her eyes wild with fear, and her tall, slim figure trembled convulsively as she frantically caught at the lapels of his coat, as if to hide herself within its folds, and gasped breathlessly,--

“What is it? Oh! Mr. Boyle, save me!”

“They are wolves,” he said hurriedly. “But there is no danger; they would never attack you; you were safe where you were; let me lead you back.”

But she remained rooted to the spot, still clinging desperately to his coat. “No, no!” she said, “I dare not! I heard that awful cry in my sleep. I looked out and saw it--a dreadful creature with yellow eyes and tongue, and a sickening breath as it passed between the wheels just below me. Ah! What's that?” and she again lapsed in nervous terror against him.

Boyle passed his arm around her promptly, firmly, masterfully. She seemed to feel the implied protection, and yielded to it gratefully, with the further breakdown of a sob. “There is no danger,” he repeated cheerfully. “Wolves are not good to look at, I know, but they wouldn't have attacked you. The beast only scents some carrion on the plain, and you probably frightened him more than he did you. Lean on me,” he continued as her step tottered; “you will be better in the coach.”

“And you won't leave me alone again?” she said in hesitating terror.

“No!”

He supported her to the coach gravely, gently--her master and still more his own for all that her beautiful loosened hair was against his cheek and shoulder, its perfume in his nostrils, and the contour of her lithe and perfect figure against his own. He helped her back into the coach, with the aid of the cushions and shawl arranged a reclining couch for her on the back seat, and then resumed his old place patiently. By degrees the color came back to her face--as much of it as was not hidden by her handkerchief.

Then a tremulous voice behind it began a half-smothered apology. “I am SO ashamed, Mr. Boyle--I really could not help it! But it was so sudden--and so horrible--I shouldn't have been afraid of it had it been really an Indian with a scalping knife--instead of that beast! I don't know why I did it--but I was alone--and seemed to be dead--and you were dead too and they were coming to eat me! They do, you know--you said so just now! Perhaps I was dreaming. I don't know what you must think of me--I had no idea I was such a coward!”

But Boyle protested indignantly. He was sure if HE had been asleep and had not known what wolves were before, he would have been equally frightened. She must try to go to sleep again--he was sure she could--and he would not stir from the coach until she waked, or her friends came.

She grew quieter presently, and took away the handkerchief from a mouth that smiled though it still quivered; then reaction began, and her tired nerves brought her languor and finally repose. Boyle watched the shadows thicken around her long lashes until they lay softly on the faint flush that sleep was bringing to her cheek; her delicate lips parted, and her quick breath at last came with the regularity of slumber.

So she slept, and he, sitting silently opposite her, dreamed--the old dream that comes to most good men and true once in their lives. He scarcely moved until the dawn lightened with opal the dreary plain, bringing back the horizon and day, when he woke from his dream with a sigh, and then a laugh. Then he listened for the sound of distant hoofs, and hearing them, crept noiselessly from the coach. A compact body of horsemen were bearing down upon it. He rose quickly to meet them, and throwing up his hand, brought them to a halt at some distance from the coach. They spread out, resolving themselves into a dozen troopers and a smart young cadet-like officer.

“If you are seeking Miss Cantire,” he said in a quiet, businesslike tone, “she is quite safe in the coach and asleep. She knows nothing yet of what has happened, and believes it is you who have taken everything away for security against an Indian attack. She has had a pretty rough night--what with her fatigue and her alarm at the wolves--and I thought it best to keep the truth from her as long as possible, and I would advise you to break it to her gently.” He then briefly told the story of their experiences, omitting only his own personal encounter with the Indian. A new pride, which was perhaps the result of his vigil, prevented him.

The young officer glanced at him with as much courtesy as might be afforded to a civilian intruding upon active military operations. “I am sure Major Cantire will be greatly obliged to you when he knows it,” he said politely, “and as we intend to harness up and take the coach back to Sage Wood Station immediately, you will have an opportunity of telling him.”

“I am not going back by the coach to Sage Wood,” said Boyle quietly. “I have already lost twelve hours of my time--as well as my trunk--on this picnic, and I reckon the least Major Cantire can do is to let me take one of your horses to the next station in time to catch the down coach. I can do it, if I set out at once.”

Boyle heard his name, with the familiar prefix of “Dicky,” given to the officer by a commissary sergeant, whom he recognized as having met at the Agency, and the words “Chicago drummer” added, while a perceptible smile went throughout the group. “Very well, sir,” said the officer, with a familiarity a shade less respectful than his previous formal manner. “You can take the horse, as I believe the Indians have already made free with your samples. Give him a mount, sergeant.”

The two men walked towards the coach. Boyle lingered a moment at the window to show him the figure of Miss Cantire still peacefully slumbering among her pile of cushions, and then turned quietly away. A moment later he was galloping on one of the troopers' horses across the empty plain.