of Purdy and her own utter helplessness.  With a great surge of gratitude—­and—­was it only gratitude—­this admiration and pride in the achievement of the man who had rushed to her rescue?  Alone there in the darkness the girl flushed to the roots of her hair as she realized that it was for this man she had unhesitatingly and unquestioningly ridden far into the night in company with an unknown Indian.  Realized, also, that above the pain of her tortured muscles, above the uncertainty of her own position, was the anxiety and worry as to the fate of Endicott.  Where was he?  Had Tex lied when he told her there would be no lynching?  Even if he desired could he prevent the cowboys from wreaking their vengeance upon the man who had killed one of their number?  She recalled with a shudder the cold cynicism of the smile that habitually curled the lips of the Texan.  A man who could smile like that could lie—­could do anything to gain an end.  And yet—­she realized with a puzzled frown that in her heart was no fear of him—­no terror such as struck into her very soul at the sudden unmasking of Purdy.  “It’s his eyes,” she murmured; “beneath his cynical exterior lies a man of finer fibre.”

Some distance away a match flared in the darkness and went out, and dimly by the little light of the stars Alice made out the form of the half-breed seated upon his rock beside the trail.  Motionless as the rock itself the man sat humped over with his arms entwining his knees.  A sombre figure, and one that fitted intrinsically into the scene—­the dark shapes of the three horses that snipped grass beside the trail, the soft murmur of the waters of the creek as they purled over the stones, the black wall of the coulee, with the mountains rising beyond—­all bespoke the wild that since childhood she had pictured, but never before had seen.  Under any other circumstances the setting would have appealed, would have thrilled her to the soul.  But now—­over and over through her brain repeated the question:  Where is he?

A horse nickered softly and raising his head, sniffed the night air.  The Indian stepped from his rock and stood alert with his eyes on the reach of the back-trail.  And then softly, almost inaudibly to the ears of the girl came the sound of horses’ hoofs pounding the trail in monotonous rhythm.

Leaping to her feet she rushed forward in time to see Bat catch up the reins of the three horses and slip noiselessly into the shelter of a bunch of scrub willows.  In a moment she was at his side and the Indian thrust the reins into her hand.

“Better you wait here,” he whispered hurriedly.  “Mebbe-so, som’wan else com’ ‘long.  Me, A’m gon’ for look.”  With the words the man blended into the shadows and, clutching the reins, the girl waited with every nerve drawn tense.

Nearer and nearer came the sound of the thudding hoofs.  The riders had reached the dip of the trail now and the rhythmic pound of the horses’ feet changed to a syncopated shuffle as the animals made the steep descent.  At the edge of the creek they paused for a moment and then Alice, could hear the splash of their feet in the water and the deep sucking sound of horses drinking.