Slowly, as though his mind was still in a dream, the man’s hands were lifted above his head, one grasping a short, sawed-off gun.  The expression upon his face was ugly, as he began to dimly understand what this unexpected hold-up meant.  There followed an instant of silence, in which Hamlin, forgetful of Hughes, who still remained lying quiet in the snow, took a step or two forward, rifle at shoulder.  The two Indians, swathed in blankets, but with arms upraised, were in direct line, motionless as statues.  He could see the gleam of their dark eyes, and even noticed the figure of the girl straighten in the saddle.

Dupont gave fierce utterance to an oath.  Apparently he failed to recognize the soldier, but as Hughes rose to his knees, suspicion leaped instantly to his brain.

“A hold-up, hey!” he said coolly.  “Hughes, you sneaking old coward, come out into the open once.  What is it you want?”

“Nothing to that, Dupont,” returned the Sergeant, glancing back questioningly toward his companion.  “Your old partner is here under my orders.  I am Sergeant Hamlin, Seventh Cavalry.  Throw down that gun!”

“What!  You—­”

“Yes, you are my prisoner, I ’ve followed you from Dodge.  Throw down the gun!”

It was dropped sullenly into the snow.

“Now, Hughes, go ahead, and disarm those Indians.”

The cowman shuffled forward, revolver in hand, circling to keep safely beyond reach of Dupont, who eyed him maliciously.  The latter was so buttoned up in a buffalo coat as to make it impossible for him to reach a weapon, and Hamlin permitted his eyes to waver slightly, as he watched the Indians.  What occurred the next instant came so suddenly as scarcely to leave an impression.  It was swift, instinctive action, primitive impulse.  An Indian hand fell beneath its blanket covering; there was a flash of flame across a pony’s saddle; Hughes sprang backward, and went reeling into the snow.  Hamlin fired, as the savage dodged between the horse’s legs, sending him sprawling, and, ignoring the other Indian, swung about to cover Dupont.  Swift as he moved, he was too late.  With one desperate spring backward the white man was behind the woman’s pony, sheltered by her shapeless figure, gripping the animal’s bit.  The second Indian dropped to his knees and opened fire.  With a sudden lurch forward the Sergeant plunged headlong in the snow.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE GIRL AND THE MAN

As he went down, uninjured, but realizing now that this was to be a battle to the death, Hamlin flung open his coat, and gripped his revolver.  Lying there on his face he fired twice, deliberately, choosing the exposed Indian as a target.  The latter, striving to mount his frightened pony, fell forward, grasping the mane desperately, a stream of blood dyeing his blanket as the animal dashed across the valley.