In the morning, when the sun lit the level land, far down the trail westward gleamed a long white line of moving wagons.

Allie uttered a wild and broken cry, in which all the torture shuddered out of her heart.  Again she was saved!  That black doubt was shame to her spirit.  She prayed her thanksgiving, and vowed in her prayers that no adversity, however cruel, could ever again shake her faith or conquer her spirit.

She was going on to meet Neale.  Life was suddenly sweet again, unutterably full, blazing like the sunrise.  He was there—­somewhere to the eastward.

She waited.  The caravan was miles away.  But it was no mirage, no trick of the wide plain!  She watched.  If the hours of night had been long, what were these hours of day with life and the chance of happiness ever advancing?

At last she saw the scouts riding in front and alongside, and the plodding oxen.  It was a large caravan, well equipped for defense.

She left the little rise of ground and made for the trail.  How uneven the walking!  She staggered.  Her legs were weak.  But she gained the trail and stood there.  She waved.  They were not so far away.  Surely she would be seen.  She staggered on—­waved again.

There!  The leading scout had halted.  He pointed.  Other riders crowded around him.  The caravan came to a stop.

Allie heard voices.  She waved her arms and tried to run.  A scout dismounted, advanced to meet her, rifle ready.  The caravan feared a Sioux trick.  Allie described a lean, gray old man; now he was rapidly striding toward her.

“It’s a white gal!” she heard him shout.

Others ran forward as she staggered to meet them.

“I’m alone—­I’m—­lost!” she faltered.

“A white gal in Injun dress,” said another.

And then kind hands were outstretched to her.

“I’m—­running—­away ...  Indians!” panted Allie.

“Whar?” asked the lean old scout.

“Over the ridges—­miles—­twenty miles—­more.  They had me.  I got—­ away ... four—­three days ago.”

The group around Allie opened to admit another man.

“Who’s this—­who’s this?” called a quick voice, soft and liquid, yet with a quality of steel in it.

Allie had heard that voice.  She saw a tall man in long black coat and wide black hat and flowered vest and flowing tie.  Her heart contracted.

“Allie!” rang the voice.

She looked up to see a dark, handsome face—­a Spanish face with almond eyes, sloe-black and magnetic—­a face that suddenly blazed.

She recognized the man with whom her mother had run away—­the man she had long believed her father—­the adventurer Durade!  Then she fainted.

14

Allie recovered to find herself lying in a canvas-covered wagon, and being worked over by several sympathetic women.  She did not see Durade.  But she knew she had not been mistaken.  The wagon was rolling along as fast as oxen could travel.  Evidently the caravan had been alarmed by the proximity of the Sioux and was making as much progress as possible.