phy was expected to give his full
attention to him, but as events progressed there was danger of his
forgetting this duty. He began to look more to the singular contest than
to his captive.

This Indian was standing on his feet, leaning forward, and peering as
best he could between the trees and the obstructing limbs. Tim was
seated on a bowlder at his side, and until this moment was the target of
a pair of eyes that would have detected the slightest movement on his
part.

The Irishman was quick to observe that by the strange trend of events a
golden opportunity had or was about to come to him. The warrior seemed
to forget him entirely, though, like all his people, he would be
recalled with lightning quickness on hearing or seeing anything amiss.

Surely no such chance could come again. Convinced of this, Tim seized it
with the rush of a hurricane.

Rising quickly and noiselessly to his feet he delivered a blow as quick
as a flash under the ear of the Sioux, which stretched him like a dead
man on his face.

There had been no noise, and in the excitement of the occasion the
Indians at the base of the ridge were not likely to learn what had taken
place until the revival of the senseless warrior, who was not likely to
become of any account for several minutes.

Tim needed no urging to improve his opportunity. Facing the top of the
ridge, he started off with a single desire of getting over the rough
ground as fast as possible.

He had taken but a few steps, however, when he abruptly stopped.

"Begorra!" he muttered, "but what a forgitful spalpeen is Tim Brophy!"

He had no rifle. That would never do, when pursuit was inevitable in a
short time. Accordingly, he turned about, ran to the prostrate figure,
and took the gun from his grasp. It was not as good as his own, but
inasmuch as that was in the possession of one of the others it was
beyond recovery.

It seemed cruel, but to make matters safe the Irishman gave the
prostrate fellow a second vigorous blow, from which he was certain not
to recover for a considerable while.

"I hate to hit a man whin he is down," he reflected. "If I meets him
ag'in I'll ax his pardon."

It was no time to indulge in sentiment, and he was off once more.

Some strange fate directed his steps, without his noticing the fact,
along the trail made by Warren Starr in his first hurried flight. Thus
it was that he came upon the other warrior that had been outwitted by
the youth whom he