Frank Merriwell's Athletes Part 46

Inza waved her handkerchief.

Was it a signal to Frank? or was it meant for John Swiftwing?

"In either case," thought the white boy, "it is enough. I will win!"

He set his teeth and gave a great spurt that must have carried him into the lead; but, at that moment something happened.

The tall Indian who had been racing at Frank's side thrust out a foot and neatly tripped Merriwell up. This happened at the very moment when the white boy started to spurt, and Frank was flung into the air and hurled forward upon his head. His hands were thrust out to break his fall, and he saved himself in a measure, but he was stunned and lay motionless for some seconds.

With a gasp he sat up.

"Beaten!" he hoa.r.s.ely grated-"beaten by a foul trick! I did not think John Swiftwing would have anything to do with a plot of this sort!"

Then he saw something that caused his heart to give one mad leap and stand still.

Swiftwing reached the end of the course. As he rushed over the line, without pausing, he caught Inza Burrage about the waist, swung her into the air, tossed her over his shoulder, and--

How was it done? An instant later the Indian was astride the horse which the other Indian had been holding ready for him. He still held fast to Inza. Frank heard her scream with sudden terror, and the cry was drowned by a hoa.r.s.e sound from Swiftwing. Like an arrow leaving the bow, the horse, bearing its double burden, shot away.

CHAPTER XXV-JOHN SWIFTWING'S FAREWELL

"White Dove, we are alone in the mountains, where neither friend nor foe can reach us. Here we will stay. Soon the sun will seek his bed to rest, and the night will smile down upon us from its starry eyes, while it breathes a soft breath to smooth the ruffled feathers of the White Dove.

You must have no fear of day or night, for I am with you, and I will guard you as the she-bear guards its cubs."

Inza Burrage, her face tear-wet, her hair tumbled and tangled, her clothing torn in two or three places, turned her gaze reproachingly upon John Swiftwing.

"It is not the day or the night that I fear," she said, slowly, with a dignity that was womanly. "I do not fear the dangers of the mountains.

Wild beasts have no terrors for me now. And still my heart is frozen within me, and all my body is like ice."

They were standing on a small plateau, where they could look away across a plain that lay below them. The sun was in the western sky. Behind them the sweat-stained horse that had brought them thither was feeding.

"Why should your heart be frozen and your body like ice?" asked the Indian, gently, his voice soft and musical, and a light of tenderness gleaming in his eyes.

"Because, John Swiftwing-because I fear you!"

"The White Dove should not fear me, for I will guard and protect her with my life. I will face any peril in defense of her."

He took a step toward her, but she drew back, flinging out her hand.

"Stop!" she gasped. "Please-please don't touch me! I want to talk to you-I wish to beg you to be merciful and take me back to those from whom you carried me away!"

He folded his arms and looked at her in silence. It was an unconscious pose, and never had he looked handsomer than at that moment. After a little silence he spoke:

"Why should I take you back?" he asked. "I love you, and I want you for my mate. You shall be my mate. You shall be my wife, White Dove. We will live together in some beautiful valley, far away from all the world-live in a little nest that I will find for you. The sunny days will glide by like a soft-floating stream, and every starry night shall be a dream of happiness."

"No! no! no!" she cried, with her hands outflung. "That could not be!"

"Why not?"

"Because-oh, because!"

"White Dove, don't you love me?"

"No! no! no!"

"Then your eyes have deceived me, for I fancied I saw love deep down in them. It must have been the reflection of the love that was in my heart.

But still I know there was encouragement in them. They spoke like words."

"And this is my punishment!" sobbed the poor girl. "Oh, Mr. Swiftwing, it was not love-it was admiration! I thought you so brave and so n.o.ble!

I did not dream you could do such a wicked thing as you have done! No one could have made me believe it was in your heart. I would have defended you against the tongues of all accusers. But now-how my idol is shattered!"

He shrank beneath her words, as if they were blows from a whip. For a moment he cowered, and then he lifted his head with an angry, defiant toss.

"They told you," he said-"they told you the red streak was in me! They were right! I heard them say it! They told you that my heart was the heart of an Indian, even though I wore white man's clothes and read white man's books. They were right! They told you all the education I might receive would not change my nature. They were right! G.o.d made the white man, and He made the Indian. He did not make them alike, and what G.o.d has made man cannot change. The white man took me to give me an education. Bah! What is an education to me? What would it mean if I had the finest education that the white man could give me? I would still remain an Indian, and, with all my education, I would turn back to my people, live as they live and die as they die-no better. I have thought it all out. I have thought it is no use to try to be anything but an Indian. The fight is ended! I am an Indian again!"

Inza's heart was full of despair.

"I will not believe you are as bad as you think!" she cried. "I saw something n.o.ble in your face, and I think it came from your heart. See, Swiftwing-on my knees I beg you to take me back to my friends! I know you will not refuse me! Take me back to them, and always will I remember you with grat.i.tude. Always will I think of you as n.o.ble and true when the great test came!"

Thus she entreated him, and the pleading of her face and eyes was more than her words. He stirred uneasily.

"You do not love me?"

"No! no!"

"You love Frank Merriwell?"

"Yes! I think more of him than any one else."

"I would be a fool to give you up to him now. I would be a fool to take you back to him when I have you safe. If I did that, I would not be an Indian. I love you."

She continued to entreat him to take her back, and her words were wonderfully eloquent. He stood like an image of stone, his brow dark, his arms folded, looking down at her. She grew weak with fear, for she could see nothing of relenting in his face. Tears rained down her cheeks and she wrung her hands. He turned away.

"Give me time to think," he said.

For a long time he stood there, looking down upon the plain, moveless as a thing inanimate. She prayed that his heart might be softened.

At last he turned and held out one hand.

"White Dove," he said, and his voice was as sweet and gentle as the murmur of a brook, "come to me."

Somehow she did not fear him then. She arose and went, to him, permitting him to take her hand.

"Look," he said, pointing toward a black speck upon the plain, "there is Frank Merriwell! He is coming for you! He is on my trail, but I could take you where he could never find us. Instead of that, White Dove, I am going to take you down there to meet him!"