"But they haven't hurt _her?_ They surely would not hurt _her_!" came
the piteous wail, as the girl clung to the rude balustrade, while her
mother hastened to rouse the sleeping warrior. "Heaven pity her,"
thought Strong, "unless they have killed her outright and _not_ carried
her away."

Then came a step in the hall behind him, and Willett was there, alert
and resourceful. "Pray don't be troubled _yet_, Miss Archer," he called
reassuringly, and barely noticing Strong. "The messenger's been
stampeded before this, the men tell me. He's too badly scared to know
the truth. It may be there's been a fire. I think there has, for the
light could be seen, and so he imagined Indians and never stopped to
see. I'm going right up there and will send back word. _Please_ don't
worry yet!"

How thoughtful he was for her, and for dear mamma! How kind! Strong
knew full well that the light they had seen was the glare of no burning
ranch, but a beacon far up in the hills--a signal fire, of course. The
ranch lay in a deep valley ten miles to the north-east, with high
ridges intervening. In the brilliant moonlight a glare that might
otherwise have been seen on the sky would pass unnoted. Strong knew,
deep down in his heart, that whatever the fate of the family, the ranch
was a thing of the past, but Willett's words were soothing. It was
better to let them go unquestioned.

Then out came the general on the landing above, his towzled gray poll
poking over the rail. "What is it, Strong? I'll be down quick as I can
half dress." Indeed, he was losing no instant of time, though it cost
him some items of toilet. With his feet in "flip-flaps," his legs in
loose linen trousers, and buttoning a sack coat over his nightgown, the
veteran was already shuffling downstairs. "Run back to your room,
dear," he said, as he passed his little girl. "You shall know
everything presently," and then in a moment was out in the free air of
heaven, the two young officers with him.

Briefly, cautiously, the adjutant murmured the dago's story, adding his
fear as to its truth. Blankly Archer looked at them an instant, aghast,
appalled, as well he might be, and for the moment unable or unwilling
to trust himself to speak. There had been no time, he said, to souse
his head in the big basin of cool water his wife would have given him.
He was still heated, flushed, suddenly roused from heavy slumber, and
by no means at his best. Strong knew just how to act in the prem