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counter any spell he might be able to weave.  If she ran away right now she would be admitting that his magic was greater.  That she would not do.  Squaring her shoulders, holding her chin high in the air , she retethered the mare and returned to the cave and her vigil, maintaining a cautious distance .
    "No!  Dear God, no!" The sound of the white man's murmuring as he thrashed his head from sid e to side  brought Skyraven closer to his side. Over come by sympathy , she knelt down beside him and reached out to soothe his brow, thankful that there appeared t o be no fever.
    "Rest, white ey es.  None will harm you here."
    The soldier's eyes flew open as if responding to her voice. "Dead.  All dead......"  He started to sit up but Skyraven forcefully pushed him back down.  "No......  Leave me be!  Heathens.  God damned savag es !"  He twiste d and squirmed, trying to escape from the hand that pressed against his chest , but Skyraven maintained her hold on him.  At  last he ceased his struggles as fatigue seemingly drained him of energy.   Even so , his eyes remained open, focusing a t last on her.  "Who are you?"
    Skyrav en was wary. "Why do you ask?"
    "I...I  just want to know by w...what name to call you.  That is all."  John Hanlen's eyes raked over her, remembering vaguely that in some way she had come to his rescue.  Certainly she was  a welcoming sigh t, a striking beautiful woman.
    "My name is Skyraven, white man." There could be no harm in telling him.  "I brought you here.  You are safe from those Ute de vils who tortured you."
    "Utes?"  Not quite believing her, he lifted his head and looked around as if expecting a war party to fall upon him again.  He was in some sort of cave.  With a shudder he recalled what had happened to him.  How then could he ever f eel safe again?  "Where am I?"
    "In my secret cave."  As if reading his mind she said, "far away from the Ute cam p.  Near my people's village."
    "Your people.....?"
    "Arapaho."  She said the name proudly.  "The Utes are our enemies.  They are warring.  We are peaceful."
    "Peaceful?" he croaked.  Were any Indians really peaceful?  After his experience he couldn't hel p but wonder.
    "Our name means traders .  We have kept our word to the whiteman."   A frown creased her brow.  "They have not always done the same."   The old hostilities assailed her and for a moment she could not bare to even look at him, but his w racking cough renewed her sympathy.  His throat was dry.  He needed water.  She had with her some pemmican and a water pouch made of the lining of a buffalo paunch.  The vessel had a small wooden hoop at the mouth to keep it open and a stick across the hoop acted as a handle.  She fetched it now, giving him the comfort of it's soot h ing moisture.  "Here...."
    John Hanlen was amazed at how gently her hand touched his as she aided him in drinking from her water flask .   To drink from the pouch he had to raise his head, put his mouth to the opening while she pressed the pouch between her palms to bring the water to the top.  Once or twice his fingers encountered hers and he found the mutual touching to be pleasant.  Savage?   That word most certainly did n ot belong to this young woman.
    "The taste.....?"  It was not unpleasant.  He drank tentatively at first , then gulped it down, letting the water quench his parched lips and soothe his d ry throat.  He gulped it down.
    "There is a sprig of mint to give the water a mild flavor and co oling taste.  Do you like it?"
    "Yes..."  He liked this woman as well . His eyes took in all of her-- the full firm breasts, long legs, small waist, well-rounded hips.   Even the shapeless leather gown she wore could not hide her curves.  For a moment he could imagine her  dressed in a bright blue ball gown, twirling in a waltz on his arm.  She would dazzle them in Missouri .  Dark hair framed a slightly rounded face that  couldn't have been more perfect if it