and sending bullet after bullet whistling out
across the prairie.

The flashing, feather-streaming shadows swerved to right and left, and
swept away in big circles. Then Farron stretched out his arms,--no time
for word of any kind,--and Wells laid in them the sobbing child, and
seized in turn the brown and precious rifle.

"Off with you, Farron! Straight for home now. I'll keep 'em back." And
the sergeant in turn reined his horse, fronted the foe, and opened rapid
fire, though with little hope of hitting horse or man.

Disregarding the bullets that sang past his ears, he sent shot after
shot at the shadowy riders, checked now, and circling far out on the
prairie, until once more he could look about him, and see that Farron
had reached the ranch, and had thrown himself from his horse.

Then slowly he turned back, fronting now and then to answer the shots
that came singing by him, and to hurrah with delight when, as the
Indians came within range of the ranch, its inmates opened fire on them,
and a pony sent a yelping rider flying over his head, as he stumbled and
plunged to earth, shot through the body.

Then Wells turned in earnest and made a final dash for the corral. Then
his own good steed, that had borne them both so bravely, suddenly
wavered and tottered under him. He knew too well that the gallant horse
had received his death-blow even before he went heavily to ground within
fifty yards of the ranch.

Wells was up in an instant, unharmed, and made a rush, stooping low.

Another moment, and he was drawn within the door-way, panting and
exhausted, but safe. He listened with amazement to the outward sounds of
shots and hoofs and yells dying away into the distance southward.

"What on earth is that?" he asked.

"It's that scoundrel, Pete. He's taken my horse and deserted!" was
Farron's breathless answer. "I hope they'll catch and kill him! I
despise a coward!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE RESCUE.

All the time, travelling at rapid lope, but at the same time saving
Buford's strength for sudden emergency, Ralph McCrea rode warily through
the night. He kept far to east of the high ridge of the "Buffalo
Hill,"--Who knew what Indian eyes might be watching there?--and mile
after mile he wound among the ravines and swales which he had learned so
well in by-gone days when he little dreamed of the value that his
"plainscraft" might be to him.

For a while his heart beat like a trip-hammer; every echo of his
cours