Lilian turned deadly pale.

"Mother," she gasped, "they are Indians!"

Mrs. Wyman grew pale also. During her short life in the West she had
seen only one or two isolated Indians, and those always at railway
stations--dull, commonplace creatures enough, and with nothing
suggestive of the warrior about them.

"Where is your father?" she asked, with something of a tremor in her
voice.

"Probably over at the sheep-sheds," faltered Lilian. "He's always there
near noon. I wish--I wish the boys were here."

"They'll be coming directly. Look again now, Lilian. They are
approaching very fast."

Indeed the Indians were coming on fast. They were now in plain sight on
the long incline and were riding at a full gallop, gesticulating and
pressing forward with what looked to Lilian like savage fierceness.

"They will go by no doubt," said Mrs. Wyman, her native courage
reasserting itself. "They are probably out in search of lost ponies
or--"

"Look, mother! See! They are not going by. They have halted, and are
pointing to the house. See! They are turning in at the lane. Oh,
mother!"