aid an arm about her little
shoulders.

"You saved my life, kid!" he said, softly. "How ever did you know I
was down there in that hell?"

"I jest _knowed_ it was you, when I seen Red Pichot an' Bug Mitchell
a-trackin' some one," answered the child, still keeping her eyes on
the trail, as if it was her part to see that Henderson was not again
taken unawares. "I _knowed_ it was you, Mister Henderson, an' I
followed 'em; an' oh, I seen it all, I seen it all, an' I most died
because I hadn't no gun. But I'd 'ave killed 'em both, some day, sure,
ef--ef they hadn't went away! But they'll be back now right quick."

Henderson bent and kissed her wet black head, saying, "Bless you, kid!
You an' me'll always be pals, I reckon!"

At the kiss the child's face flushed, and, for one second forgetting
to watch the trail, she lifted glowing eyes to his. But he was already
looking away.

"Come on," he muttered. "This ain't no place for you an' me _yet_."

Making a careful circuit through the thick undergrowth, swiftly but
silently as two wildcats, the strange pair gained a covert close
beside the trail by which Pichot and Mitchell would return to the rim
of the pot. Safely ambuscaded, Henderson laid a hand firmly on the
child's arm, resting it there for two or three seconds, as a sign of
silence.

Minute after minute went by in the intense stillness. At last the
child, whose ears were even keener than Henderson's, caught her breath
with a little indrawing gasp and looked up at her companion's face.
Henderson understood; and every muscle stiffened. A moment later and
he, too, heard the oncoming tread of hurried footsteps. Then Pichot
went by at a swinging stride, with Mitchell skulking obediently at his
heels.

Henderson half raised his rifle, and his face turned grey and cold
like steel. But it was no part of his plan to shoot even Red Pichot in
the back. From the manner of the two ruffians it was plain that they
had no suspicion of the turn which affairs had taken. To them it was
as sure as two and two make four that Henderson was still on his log
in the pot, if he had not already gone over into the cauldron. As they
reached the rim Henderson stepped out into the trail behind them, his
gun balanced ready like a trapshooter's.

As Pichot, on the very brink, looked down into the pot and saw that
his victim was no longer there, he turned to Mitchell with a smile of
mingled triumph and disappointment.

But, on the instant, t