Deserted | Page 7

swept until, laughing, flushed, and panting, they came to a
stop.
It was then that they first perceived that they were not without a circle

of appreciative spectators. Sitting like statues on their sniffing, pawing
ponies, a dozen Piute Indians encircled them. Engrossed with the dance
and with each other, they had not noticed them as they rode up,
attracted from their route by this marvelous spectacle of a pale-face
squaw and brave engaged in a solitary war dance in the midst of the
desert.
At sight of the grim circle of centaurs around them Miss Dwyer would
have fainted but for Lombard's firm hold.
"Pretend not to see them; keep on dancing," he hissed in her ear. He
had no distinct plan in what he said, but spoke merely from an instinct
of self-preservation, which told him that when they stopped, the Indians
would be upon them. But as she mechanically, and really more dead
than alive, obeyed his direction and resumed the dance, and he in his
excitement was treading on her feet at every step, the thought flashed
upon him that there was a bare chance of escaping violence, if they
could keep the Indians interested without appearing to notice their
presence. In successive whispers he communicated his idea to Miss
Dyer: "Don't act as if you saw them at all, but do everything as if we
were alone. That will puzzle them, and make them think us
supernatural beings, or perhaps crazy: Indians have great respect for
crazy people. It's our only chance. We will stop dancing now, and sing
awhile. Give them a burlesque of opera. I 'll give you the cues and
show you how. Don't be frightened. I don't believe they 'll touch us so
long as we act as if we did n't see them. Do you understand? Can you
do your part?"
"I understand; I 'll try," she whispered.
"Now," he said, and as they separated, he threw his hat on the ground,
and, assuming an extravagantly languishing attitude, burst forth in a
most poignant burlesque of a lovelorn tenor's part, rolling his eyes,
clasping his hands, striking his breast, and gyrating about Miss
Dwyer-in the most approved operatic style. He had a fine voice and
knew a good deal of music; so that, barring a certain nervousness in the
performer, the exhibition was really not bad. In his singing he had used
a meaningless gibberish varied with the syllables of the scale, but he

closed by singing the words, "Are you ready now? Go ahead, then."
With that she took it up, and rendered the prima donna quite as
effectively, interjecting "The Last Rose of Summer" as an aria in a
manner that would have been encored in San Francisco. He responded
with a few staccato notes, and the scene ended by their rushing into
each other's arms and waltzing down the stage with abandon.
The Indians sat motionless on their horses, not even exchanging
comments among themselves. They were evidently too utterly
astonished by the goings on before them to have any other sentiment as
yet beyond pure amazement. Here were two richly-dressed pale-faces,
such as only lived in cities, out in the middle of an uninhabitable desert,
in the freezing midnight, having a variety and minstrel show all to
themselves, and, to make the exhibition the more unaccountable,
without apparently seeing their auditors at all. Had they started up the
show after being captured, Indian cunning would have recognized in it
a device to save their lives, but the two had been at it before the party
rode up,-- had, in fact, first attracted attention by their gyrations, which
were visible for miles out on the moony plain.
Lombard, without ever letting his eyes rest a moment on the Indians so
as to indicate that he saw them, had still managed by looks askance and
sweeping glances to keep close watch upon their demeanor, and noted
with prodigious relief that his wild scheme was succeeding better than
he had dared to hope. Without any break in the entertainment he
communicated his reassurance to Miss Dwyer by singing, to the tune of
"My Country, 'tis of Thee," the following original hymn:--
"We 're doing admir'blee-- They 're heap much tickledee: Only keep
on."
To which she responded, to the lugubrious air of "John Brown's
Body:"--
"Oh, what do you s'pose they 'll go for to do, Oh, what do you s'pose
they 'll go for to do, Oh, what do you s'pose they 'll go for to do, When
we can sing no more?"

A thing may be ridiculous without being amusing, and neither of these
two felt the least inclination to smile at each other's poetry. After duly
joining in the chorus of "Glory, Hallelujah!" Lombard endeavored to
cheer his companion