But Brick Willock had been one of them and he had killed their
leader, and their leader's brother, or at least had brought them to
the verge of death. If Red Kimball revived, he would doubtless
right his own wrongs, should Willock live to be punished. In the
meantime, it was for them to treat with the traitor--this giant of
a Texan, huge-whiskered, slow of speech, who had ever been first to
throw himself into the thick of danger but who had always hung back
from deeds of cruelty. He had plundered coaches and wagon-trains
with them, he had fought with them against strong bodies of emigrants,
he had killed and burned--in the eyes of the world his deeds made him
one of them, and his aspect marked him as the most dangerous of the
band. But they had always felt the difference--and now they meant to
kill him not only because he had overpowered their leader but because
of this difference.

As their bullets pursued him, Willock lay along the body of the
broncho, feeling his steed very small, and himself very large--and
yet, despite the rain of lead, his pleasure over the escape of the
child warmed his heart. The sand was plowed up by his side from
the peppering of bullets--but he seemed to feel that innocent
unconscious arm about his great neck; the yells of rage were in his
ears, but he heard the soft breathing of the little one fast asleep
in the midst of her dangers.

He had selected for himself, and for Gledware, ponies that had often
been run against each other, and which no others of all Red
Kimball's corral could surpass in speed. Gledware and the child
were on the pony that Kimball had once staked against the swiftest
animal the Indians could produce--and Willock rode the pride of the