The Reverend Howard Wynkoop, who for more than an hour past
had been vainly dangling a fishing-line above the dancing waters of
Clear Creek, now reclined dreamily on the soft turf of the high bank,
his eyes fixed upon the distant sky-line. His thoughts were on the
flossy hair and animated face of the fair Miss Spencer, who he
momentarily expected would round the edge of the hill, and so deeply
did he become sank in blissful reflection as to be totally oblivious to
everything but her approach.
Just above his secret resting-place, where the great woods deepen, and
the gloomy shadows lie darkly all through the long afternoons, a small
party of hideously painted savages skulked silently in ambush.
Suddenly to their strained ears was borne the sound of horses' hoofs;
and then, all at once, a woman's voice rang out in a single shrill,
startled cry.
"Whut is up?" questioned the leading savage, hoarsely. "Is he a-doin'
this little job all by hisself?"
"Dunno," answered the fellow next him, flipping his quirt uneasily;
"but I reckon as how it's her as squealed, an' we 'd better be gitting
in ter hev our share o' the fun.
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