His eyes rested on the table, and in a moment he had turned it over and was wrenching at one of the wooden legs.  It broke off with a sharp snap, and he held in his hand a weapon possessing many advantages over the knife.  The latter he thrust into his belt with the handle just back of his hip.  Then he waited.

It was not for long.  The western mountains had shut out the last reflections of the sun.  Gloom was beginning to fill his room, and he numbered the minutes as he stood, with his ear close to the door, listening for a step, hopeful that it would be the Girl’s and not Hauck’s or Brokaw’s.  At last the step came, advancing from the end of the hall.  It was a heavy step, and he drew a deep breath and gripped the club.  His heart gave a sudden, mighty throb as the step stopped at his door.  It was not pleasant to think of what he was about to do, and yet he realized, as he heard the key in the lock, that it was a grim and terrible necessity.  He was thankful there was only one.  He would not strike too hard—­not in this cowardly way—­from ambush.  Just enough to do the business sufficiently well.  It would be easy—­quite.  He raised his club in the thickening dusk, and held his breath.

The door opened, and Hauck entered, and stood with his back to David.  Horrible!  Strike a man like that—­and with a club!  If he could use his hands, choke him, give him at least a quarter chance.  But it had to be done.  It was a sickening thing.  Hauck went down without a groan—­so silently, so lifelessly that David thought he had killed him.  He knelt beside him for a few seconds and made sure that his heart was beating before he rose to his feet.  He looked out into the hall.  The lamps had not been lighted—­probably that was one of the old Indian woman’s duties.  From the big room came a sound of voices—­and then, close to him, from the door across the way, there came a small trembling voice: 

“Hurry, Sakewawin!  Lock the door—­and come!”

For another instant he dropped on his knees at Hauck’s side.  Yes it was there—­in his pocket—­a revolver!  He possessed himself of the weapon with an exclamation of joy, locked the door, and ran across the hall.  The Girl opened her door for him, and closed it behind him as he sprang into her room.  The first object he noticed was the Indian woman.  She was lying on a cot, and her black eyes were levelled at them like the eyes of a snake.  She was trussed up so securely, and was gagged so thoroughly that he could not restrain a laugh as he bent over her.

“Splendid!” he cried softly.  “You’re a little brick, Marge—­you surely are!  And now—­what?”

With his revolver in his hand, and the Girl trembling under his arm, he felt a ridiculous desire to shout out at the top of his voice to his enemies letting them know that he was again ready to fight.  In the gloom the Girl’s eyes shone like stars.

“Who—­was it?” she whispered.