loud yell rang
behind me; and, reining in my horse, I turned in the saddle and looked
back. Another yell, wild and savage, directed me to the point whence
the former had come.

On the highest roof of the temple two men were struggling. I knew them
at a glance; and I knew, too, it was a death-struggle. One was the
medicine chief, as I could tell by the flowing, white hair. The scanty
skirt and leggings, the naked ankles, the close-fitting skull-cap,
enabled me easily to distinguish his antagonist. It was the earless
trapper!

The conflict was a short one. I had not seen the beginning of it, but I
soon witnessed the denouement. As I turned, the trapper had forced his
adversary against the parapet, and with his long, muscular arm was
bending him over its edge. In the other hand, uplifted, he brandished
his knife!

I saw a quick flash as the blade was plunged; a red gush spurted over
the garments of the Indian; his arms dropped, his body doubled over the
wall, balanced a moment, and then fell with a dull, sodden sound upon
the terrace below!

The same wild whoop again rang in my ears, and the hunter disappeared
from the root.

I turned to ride on. I knew it was the settling of some old account,
the winding up of some terrible revenge.

The clattering of hoofs sounded behind me, and a horseman rode up
alongside. I knew, without turning my head, that it was the trapper.

"Fair swop, they say, ain't no stealin'. Putty har, too, it ur. Wagh!
It won't neyther match nor patch mine; but it makes one's feelin's
easier."

Puzzled at this speech, I turned to ascertain its meaning. I was
answered by the sight that met my eye. An object was hanging from the
old man's belt, like a streak of snow-white flax. But it was not that.
It was hair. It was a scalp!

There were drops of blood struggling down the silvery strands as they
shook, and across them, near the middle, was a broad red band. It was
the track of the trapper's knife where he had wiped it!

CHAPTER FORTY.

THE FIGHT IN THE PASS.

We entered the woods, and followed the Indian trail up stream. We
hurried forward as fast as the atajo could be driven. A scramble of
five miles brought us to the eastern end of the valley. Here the
sierras impinged upon the river, forming a canon. It was a grim gap,
similar to that we had passed on entering from the west, but still more
fearful in its features. Unlike the former, there was no road over the