her, he'd be
ashamed of me if I didn't go."

Waiting for no reply,--before they could fully realize what he
meant,--the boy had chirruped to his pawing horse and away they darted
round the corner of the station, across the moonlit road, and then
eastward down the valley.

"Phillips," exclaimed the soldier, "I never should have let him go. I
ought to have gone myself; but he's away before a man can stop him."

"You're too heavy to ride that horse, and there's none other here to
match him. That boy's got the sense of a plainsman any day, I tell you,
and he'll make it all right. The Indians are all up the valley and we'll
hear 'em presently at Farron's. He's keeping off so as to get round east
of the bluffs, and then he'll strike across country southward and not
try for the road until he's eight or ten miles away. Good for Ralph!
It's a big thing he's doing, and his father will be proud of him for
it."

But the telegraph operator was heavy-hearted. The men were all anxious,
and clustered again at the rear of the station. All this had taken place
in the space of three minutes, and they were eagerly watching for the
next demonstration from the marauders.

Of the fate of poor Warner there could be little doubt. It was evident
that the Indians had overwhelmed and killed him. There was a short
struggle and the rapidly concentrating fire of rifles and revolvers for
a minute or two; then the yells had changed to triumphant whoops, and
then came silence.

"They've got his scalp, poor fellow, and no man could lend a hand to
help him. God grant they're all safe inside up there at Farron's," said
one of the party; it was the only comment made on the tragedy that had
been enacted before them.

"Hullo! What's that?"

"It's the flash of rifles again. They've sighted Ralph!" cried the
soldier.

"Not a bit of it. Ralph's off here to the eastward. They're firing and
chasing up the valley. Perhaps Warner got away after all. _Look_ at 'em!
See! The flashes are getting farther south all the time! They've headed
him off from Farron's, whoever it is, and he's making for the road. The
cowardly hounds! There's a hundred of 'em, I reckon, on one poor hunted
white man, and here we are with our hands tied!"

For a few minutes more the sound of shots and yells and thundering
hoofs came vividly through the still night air. All the time it was
drifting away southward, and gradually approached the road. One of the
ranchmen begged Phillips