A key
clicked in the lock again, he heard her swift footsteps in the hall, and
a second door opened and closed.
For a few minutes he stood without moving, a little dazed by the
suddenness with which she had left him. She had not been in his room
more than a minute or two. She had been terribly frightened, terribly
afraid of discovery before her work was done. On the floor at his feet
lay the knife. _That_ was why she had come, _that_ was what she had
brought him! His blood began to tingle. He could feel it resuming its
course through his numbed legs and arms, and he leaned over slowly, half
afraid that he would lose his balance, and picked up the weapon. The
chanting of Wapi and his people was only a distant murmur; through the
high window came the sound of returning voices--voices of white men.
There swept through him the wild thrill of the thought that once more
the fight was up to him. Marge O'Doone had done her part. She had struck
down the Indian woman Hauck had placed over her as a guard--had escaped
from her room, unbound him, and put a knife into his hands. The rest was
_his_ fight. How long before Brokaw or Hauck would come? Would they give
him time to get the blood running through his body again? Time to gain
strength to use his freedom--and the knife? He began walking slowly
across the room, pumping his arms up and down.
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