As darkness fell she heard vague rustlings in the tall grass, and looked
carefully about. In the dim light she saw pale-green lights moving
about, and knew that the wolves had smelled blood, and were gathering.
But she was not afraid. She knew that she could keep them away with the
fire and her revolver.
One of the wolves came quite close to the little camp and set up a howl,
and the Indian girl awoke.
"White girl go to her friends," she said to Stella. "Leave Singing Bird
to die as the Great Manitou intended."
"Indeed, I will not. I will stay with you until my friends come to me,
and then we will take you with us and nurse you."
Stella thought it was time to light the fire, and as its flames leaped
high, she felt more at ease.
When the wolves came close to the camp she fired her revolver at them,
and drove them away.
The hours passed silently, Stella rising occasionally to replenish the
fire and look at Singing Bird, who seemed to be sleeping. As a matter of
fact, the young Indian, who had been reared out-of-doors, and was
perfectly healthy, was recovering rapidly from her wound, although had
it not been for Stella she would probably not have survived the night,
for what the chill night air would not have done the wolves would have
finished.
It was long past midnight when out of the west rose a clear, welcome
shout that sounded as the sweetest music to her ear, the Moon Valley
yell, and she answered it, while the Indian girl sat up and smiled at
her.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305