slowly away into the night to know that their grim visitor
had returned.

The muscles of his arm, reacting to the sight and sound of the
menacing form, carried his hand to the butt of his pistol; but
after he had drawn the weapon, he immediately returned it to its
holster with a shrug.

"What for?" he muttered. "Can't waste ammunition." Then he
walked quickly to where Tippet lay sprawled upon his face.
By this time James, Brady and Sinclair were at his heels, each
with his rifle in readiness.

"Is he dead, sir?" whispered James as Bradley kneeled beside the
prostrate form.

Bradley turned Tippet over on his back and pressed an ear close
to the other's heart. In a moment he raised his head.
"Fainted," he announced. "Get water. Hurry!" Then he loosened
Tippet's shirt at the throat and when the water was brought,
threw a cupful in the man's face. Slowly Tippet regained
consciousness and sat up. At first he looked curiously into the
faces of the men about him; then an expression of terror
overspread his features. He shot a startled glance up into the
black void above and then burying his face in his arms began to
sob like a child.

"What's wrong, man?" demanded Bradley. "Buck up! Can't play
cry-baby. Waste of energy. What happened?"