For
an hour he had been venting his wrath upon the sluggish Anderson Crow,
who should have been on the scene long before this. Two of his captives,
now fully conscious, were glaring at their companions in the tent with
hate in their eyes.
Rosalie Gray, wan, dishevelled, but more beautiful than the reports had
foretold, could not at first believe herself to be free from the
clutches of the bandits. It took him many minutes--many painful
minutes--to convince her that it was not a dream, and that in truth he
was Wicker Bonner, gentleman. Sitting with his back against a tent pole,
facing the cabin through the flap, with a revolver in his trembling
hand, he told her of the night's adventures, and was repaid tenfold by
the gratitude which shone from her eyes and trembled in her voice. In
return she told him of her capture, of the awful experiences in the
cave, and of the threats which had driven her almost to the end of
endurance.
"Oh, oh, I could love you forever for this!" she cried in the fulness of
her joy. A rapturous smile flew to Bonner's eyes.
"Forever begins with this instant, Miss Gray," he said; and without any
apparent reason the two shook hands. Afterward they were to think of
this trivial act and vow that it was truly the beginning. They were
young, heart-free, and full of the romance of life.
"And those awful men are really captured--and the woman?" she cried,
after another exciting recital from him.
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