ey and bring it to
me."

"I refuse."

"You needn't, for I don't intend to let you go out of my sight. I can't
trust you. No; I have another plan in view."

Jasper did not ask what it was. He felt sure that it was nothing that he
would be willing to do.

"What is the name of your employer?"

"Herman Fitch."

"Very good."

Jack drew from his pocket a small pocket-inkstand, a pen, and some
paper.

"Now," said he, "I want you to write a letter."

"Write a letter! To whom?" inquired Jasper, in surprise.

"To this man Fitch, telling him that you have had your pocket picked and
need some money. Tell him you will need at least seventy-five dollars,
as you haven't been able to collect anything."

"I can't do it," said Jasper.

"Can't do it! What do you mean?"

"I mean that by such a letter I should deceive my employer and be
obtaining money from him by false pretenses. I can't do it."

"Look here, boy," said Jack, sternly, "you don't know the man you are
trifling with. I am a desperate man, and will stick at nothing. I have
taken life before, and I am ready to do so again. Write this letter or I
will kill you!"

Jasper listened with horror to this terrible confession and his equally
terrible threat.

"Would you take my life for seventy-five dollars?" he said.

"Yes; your life is nothing to me, and I need the money. Quick, your
answer!"

As he spoke he drew out a long, murderous-looking knife, and approached
Jasper menacingly.

It was a terrible moment. Jack looked as if he fully intended to carry
out his threat At any rate, there was danger of it. On the one side was
death, on the other breach of trust.

Finally he decided.

"You may kill me if you will," he said at length, "but I won't write the
letter."

Jack uttered an execration and raised the knife, but suddenly he uttered
a stifled cry and fell to the ground, with blood spurting from a wound
in his breast.

Jasper bounded to his feet in astonishment. He had shut his eyes,
expecting death. His first glance was at the prostrate brigand. He saw
that the wound was made by an arrow, which had penetrated the region of
the heart. But who had sped the shaft? And was he also in danger? The
question was soon answered.

Out from the underbrush emerged three figures. The foremost was the
Indian maiden, Monima. Following her were two men of the same tribe. It
was one of these who had shot at Jack.

"Is white boy hurt?" asked Monima, running to Jaspe