There was a moment of breathless quiet, the two fugitives peering
cautiously over the sand ridge. To the girl it was a confusion of
figures rushing back and forth about the smoking ruins of the stage;
occasionally a faint yell echoed across the river, and she could
distinguish a savage on his pony gesticulating as he rode back and
forth. But the Sergeant comprehended the scene. His eyes met hers and
read her bewilderment.

"They are going all right, and in a hurry. It's plain enough they are
afraid to stay there any longer. See, they are lashing bodies on to
the ponies. Ah, that is what I wanted to be sure about--that fellow is
heading west on the trail; now the others are moving."

"Then you are sure Roman Nose will not return? That--that we are safe?"

"Yes; I would n't hesitate to go back as soon as the last of them
disappear over the ridge," pointing up the river. "They knew they had
to go that way; Roman Nose and his band hoped we 'd taken that
direction, and hurried on ahead to catch us if he could. They are
afraid to stay about here any longer. Look how they are lashing those
ponies; there, the last of them are leaving."

They lay there in the sand, already becoming warm, under the rays of
the sun, trying to assure themselves that all danger of discovery had
vanished. There was no movement on the opposite shore, only the blue
spiral of smoke curling up against the bluff, marking where the stage
had stood. About this, outlined upon the brown grass, appeared darker
patches representing dead ponies and the bodies of Moylan and Gonzales
where they had been tumbled, scalped and otherwise mutilated. Down by
the river a wounded pony tried to follow the disappearing cavalcade,