before he could scream his alarm, or spring upright, the revolver butt
struck with dull thud, and he went tumbling backward into the ditch,
his cry of alarm ending in a hoarse croak. From somewhere, out of the
dense darkness in front a voice called, sharp and guttural, as if its
owner had been startled by the mysterious sound of the blow. It was
the language of the Arapahoes, and out of his vague memory of the
tongue, spurred to recollection by the swift emergency, Hamlin growled
a hoarse answer, hanging breathlessly above the motionless body until
the "ugh!" of the fellow's response proved him without suspicion. He
waited, counting the seconds, every muscle strained with expectancy,
listening. He had a feeling that some one was crawling over the short
grass, wiggling along like a snake, but the faint sound, if sound it
was, grew less distinct. Finally he lifted his head above the edge of
the bank, but saw nothing, not even a dim shadow.

"They are closing in, I reckon," he thought soberly, "and it is n't
likely there will be any more of these gentry as far back as this;
looks as though this gully turned west just beyond. Anyhow I 've got
to risk it."

He returned more rapidly, knowing the passage, yet with no less
caution, finding the unconscious girl lying exactly as he had left her.
As he clasped her form in his arms, her lips uttered some incoherent
words, but otherwise she gave no sign of life.

"Yes, yes," he whispered close to her ear, hoping thus to hold her
silent. "It is all right now; only keep still."

He could feel her breathing, and realized the danger of her return to
consciousness. If she should be frightened and cry out, their fate