The trail which they were following led toward the open prairie, left by
Warren but a short time before. It was evident that Mr. Starr was
making for that, for their animals could not serve them so long as they
continued in this rough section.

"If I had been a little later," reflected the son, "I would have met
them. That I did not proves that they cannot be far off."

He was tempted to call or whistle, but that would have been rash, for if
there was any one point on which he was certain, it was that the
hostiles were hot on the trail of Tim Brophy. The real peril was from
that direction, and several times he reminded the Irishman of the fact,
though he needed not the warnings.

A short distance farther and both stopped with an exclamation of dismay.
The report of a weapon sounded from a point only a little way ahead.

"That was not a rifle," said Warren, turning his white face on his
companion; "it was a pistol."

"Ye are corrict."

"And it was fired by father."

"I'm sure ye are right."

"They have been attacked! come on! They need our help!"

The youth dashed ahead, clambering over bowlders, darting around rocks,
ducking his head to avoid the limbs, stumbling, but instantly regaining
his feet, only intent on getting forward with the utmost possible speed.

His companion found it hard work to keep up with him, but fortunately
they had not far to run. Without the least warning of what was coming
Warren Starr burst upon his astonished parents and little Dot, the rush
being so impetuous that the rancher had his Winchester half raised to
fire before he understood.

At the feet of Mr. Starr lay the mare dead, killed by her master. While
struggling over the rugged places she had slipped and broken her leg.
The rancher mercifully put her out of her misery by placing the muzzle
of his revolver to her forehead and sending a bullet through her brain.

Mrs. Starr and Dot had turned away that they might not witness the
painful sight, for they loved the creature. The arrival of the youths
caused the mother to face quickly about, and the next moment she and
her son were clasped in each other's arms, with Dot tugging at the coat
of her big brother.

"Warren, Warren, I guess you forgot me," she pleaded, when she thought
the embrace had lasted long enough.

"Forget you, my darling!" he repeated, catching her up and hugging the
breath from her body; "never! we are together again, and only death
shall separate us."