good horse scented danger in the air and
in the tone of his mistress's voice, and with true instinct galloped
through the wood, conscious of the caressing finger-tips which ever and
anon silently encouraged him.

"Bang!"

It was unexpected, and Golightly sprang into the air, only to gallop on
again like lightning. Rosalind's heart was going pretty fast now. She
could see two or three dark forms gliding serpent-like through the
trees, but Golightly's rapid progress baulked their aim. Ah, there are
some figures in advance of her! Courage, Rosalind, courage! Her rifle is
ready.

"Golightly, dear Golightly, save us both," she whispers. And Golightly
tosses up his head with a little whinny of comprehension, and, bracing
up every nerve, prepares for a rush through that ominous path blocked as
it is by two dark figures.

[Sidenote: Rosalind's Rifle speaks]

"Bang!"

It is Rosalind's rifle this time, and a scream, shrill and piercing,
rends the air. One form drops like a stone right across the path. But
there is another to dispose of. His rifle is raised. Either Golightly or
his mistress will receive the contents of that barrel. But Rosalind's
hand never wavers as she points at that upraised arm.

"Bang!"

"Bang!"

The two shots resound almost simultaneously, but Rosalind's is first by
half a second. Again a scream rends the air, and yet another, coming
this time from the rear. Rosalind's palpitating heart prevents her from
glancing about to learn the cause. She knows she has shot the Indian in
the right arm, but she does not know, and will never know, that her
opportune shot has saved herself and her steed from being fired at from
behind as well as in front. For when the Indian's arm was struck, it
directed the contents of his rifle away from the point he aimed at. He
shot half a second after Rosalind's fire, and killed his chief
Feathertop, who was lurking in the background, grinning horribly at his
good fortune in taking aim at the back of the paleface and her flying
steed.

Over the body of the dead Indian Golightly springs, paying no heed to
the savage Redskin who stands aside from the trampling hoofs with his
right arm hanging broken at his side. He is helpless, but he may yet do
damage to Rosalind's cause. She lifts her rifle in passing him, and aims
once more at his retreating form. He springs into the air, and, without
a groan or cry, meets his death.

Rosalind has cleared her path from further danger.