Red Feather's mind was not constituted to entertain more than one leading thought at a time.Ever since the desertion and death of his daughter,revenge had been his dominant passion.It was in order to find Gledware that he had haunted the trail during the years of lahoma's youth,always hoping to discover him in the new country--gliding behind herds of cattle,listening to scraps of talks among the cattlemen,earning from Mizzoo the uneasy designation,the ghost.
Thanks to the reading aloud of Lahoma's letter,he had learned of Gledware's presence in the city which he had known years before as Westport Landing.He went thither unbewildered by its marvelous changes,undistracted by its tumultuous flood of life--for his mind was full of his mission;he could see only the blood following the blade of his knife,heard nothing but a groan,a death-rattle.
Gledware's presence in the boat this morning had been made possible only by the interposition of Lahoma;but for the Indian's deep-seated affection for her whom he regarded as a child,the man now smiling into Annabel's pale face would long ago have found his final resting-place.It was due to the Indian's singleness of thought that Lahoma's plan had struck him as good.Gledware,stripped of all his possessions,slinking as a beggar from door to door,no roof,no bed,but sky and earth --that is what Red Feather had meant.
He had believed Gledware glad of the respite.That he should accept the alternative seemed reasonable.There was a choice only between death and poverty--and Gledware wished to live so desperately--so basely!The chief cared little for life;still,he would unhesitatingly have preferred the most meager existence to a knife in his heart;how much more,then,this craven white man.But the plan had failed because Gledware did not believe death was the other alternative.Never in the remotest way had it occurred to the avenger that Gledware could be spared should he prove false to his oath.Red Feather was less a man with passions than a cold relentless fate.This fate would surely overcome the helpless wretch,should he cling to his riches.
As Red Feather skimmed the water with long sweeps of his oars,never looking back,the voices of his passengers came to his ears without meaning.He was thinking of the last few days and how this morning's ride was their fitting sequel.The early sunbeams were full on him as he tilted back his head,but they showed no emotion on his face,hard-set and dully red in the clear radiance.
Crouching near the summer-house at Gledware's place,he had overheard Red Kimball boast to bring Gledware the pearl and onyx pin.Then had shot through his darkened mind the suspicion that Gledware meant to escape the one condition on which his life was to be spared.With simple cunning he had left the pin where the outlaw must find it;his own death would be taken for granted--what then?
What then?This ride in the boat.Gledware had made his choice;he had clung to his possessions--and now Death held the oars.He was scarcely past middle age.He might have lived so long,he who so loved to live!But no,he had chosen to be rich--and to die.
When Red Feather brought his mind back to the present,Gledware was describing to Annabel a ranch in California for which he had traded the house near Independence.He would take her far away;he would build a house thus and thus--room so;terraces here;marble pillars....
Annabel listened gravely,silently,her face all the paler for the sunlight flashing over it,for the mimic sun on the waves glancing up into her pensive eyes.Somehow,the sunshine,the ripple of the water,seemed to form no part of her life,belonged rather,to Edgerton Compton rowing in solitude against the sky.Those naked trees,bare brown hills and ledges of huge stones seemed her world-boundaries,kin to her,claiming her--But there was California ...and the splendid house to be built....
The Indian was listening now,but as he heard projected details glowingly presented,no change came in his grim deep-lined face.He simply knew it was not to be--let the fool plan!He found himself wondering dully why he no longer hated Gledware with that vindictive fury that gloats over the death-grip,lingers in fiendish leisure over the lifted scalp.He scarcely remembered the wrong done his daughter;it was almost as if he had banished the cause of his revenge;as if vengeance itself had become a simple stroke of destiny.Gledware had chosen his possession,and the Indian was Fate's answer.
