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Updated: June 24, 2025
"You ought to be careful," she gravely warned him. "Working won't help your hurt." "On the contrary, the wounds are fast healing, and use of the hand tends to bring back its strength. It is already much improved." "Good." "I shall leave off the bandages after to-night." Carmena's eyes narrowed. "No. You're to keep them on, and don't let any one else even Dad see your hand.
Slade laughs at Indian spirits. He says that corn spirits are the only ones that can put a spell on a man." "They they're an awful hold on Dad," quavered Elsie. "He didn't ever used to speak cross to me." In the flickering candle light Carmena's eyes glinted with a look that Lennon thought to be fierce resentment. She thrust past him to the doorway. "Wait. I'll be back," she called.
They had left him lax and shaken and rather muddled. He had been given his fill for one night. Carmena's reproaches disarmed his suspicion that she and Lennon knew what he had been about. His guilty anger at the two subsided into derision of their blindness. "Well, what if I did git tanked up?" he growled. "It's my tizwin as much as Dad's, ain't it? I'm going back to bed to sleep it off."
He knew that he was looking into the girl's inmost heart. A hand was thrust between their faces a little dimpled hand that held a bowl of red liquid. Elsie's voice quavered urgently: "Let me fix your hurt with the dragon sap, Mena. He's alive again." Carmena's long lashes drooped upon her white cheeks. She drew back. Lennon turned aside his violently aching head.
She lifted her head from Carmena's bosom to stare at him with innocent childish wonderment. Her piquant little face was flowerlike in its delicate contours and apricot tinting; her big blue eyes were the pure intense blue of alpine forget-me-nots. No line of her pretty face bore the slightest resemblance to Carmena's comely but strong features. "O-o-oh!" she voiced her amazement.
You got to show me a deal with more in it, before you talk about a shift of pards. I'm running this shebang. There ain't no place for Lennon 'round Dead Hole. He best hit out back the way he come." Carmena's look told Lennon that he must make the next play. He thought quickly. If the girl was not mistaken, Slade would take Elsie away with him and chance the revenge of Cochise.
The big red hand clutched fast on Carmena's throat and held her off at arm's length. Contemptuously heedless of her frenzied struggles, he fixed a hard stare on Pete. "You," he ordered, "git a hustle on. Rope this hellcat, pronto." Though Pete's hesitancy was almost imperceptible, Slade's revolver swung up toward him. The young Navaho sprang forward, jabbering to his fellow tribesman.
By mid-morning the bed of the cañon had become much rougher and steeper. The pony, for all his goat-like agility and sure-footedness, found difficulty in scrambling up some of the ledges. Neither the rapid pace nor the climbing bothered Lennon. But between the burning heat and his very natural excitement over Carmena's stealthy bearing at the turns, he became keyed to rather a high pitch.
The watering of the pony took no little time and patience. Though the beast was too thirsty to show any of his former skittishness, Lennon's sombrero was leaky from the bullet holes. When at last he drove the pony on along Carmena's trail, he noticed tiny cloudlets of dark smoke, like the puffs of a giant's pipe, rising straight up in the still air from behind the point of rocks.
She had roped a pair of ponies near the garden enclosure. Though the rifles were carried, no occasion arose that called for use of the weapons. The Apaches in charge of the stock merely grunted in response to Carmena's friendly greeting and stared stolidly as she and Lennon rode by. All the other Indians seemed to have left the valley.
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