“Well, what is it?  Are they coming?”

“You bet, an’ about dead, from the looks of ’em.  Them fellars ain’t lookin’ fer nuthin’.  I reckon I could stand up straight yere an’ they ’d never see me.  Take a look yerself; it’s safe ’nough.”

Hamlin drew himself up, and peered out over the snow, but still gripped the other’s arm.  With his first glance up the valley there swept over him a strange feeling of sympathy for those he was hunting.  It was a dismal, depressing picture—­the bare, snow-covered hillsides, and between, floundering weakly through the drifts, the little party of fugitives, the emaciated ponies staggering with weakness, the men on foot, reeling as they tramped forward, their heads lowered in utter weariness.  The girl alone was in saddle, so wrapped about in blankets as to be formless, even her face concealed.  The manner in which she swayed to the movements of the pony, urged on by one of the Indians, was evidence that she was bound fast, and helpless.  At sight of her condition Hamlin felt his old relentless purpose return.  He was plainsman enough to realize what suffering those men had passed through before reaching such extremity, and was quick to appreciate the full meaning of their exhaustion, and to sympathize with it.  He had passed through a similar baptism, and remembered the desperate clutch of the storm-king.

But the sight of that poor girl swaying helplessly in the saddle, a bound prisoner in the midst of those ruffians, who had murdered her father before her eyes and who were bearing her to all the unspeakable horrors of Indian captivity, instantly stifled within him every plea of mercy.  No matter what they had suffered, they were a ruthless, merciless gang of cut-throats and thieves, fleeing from justice, deserving of no consideration.  Yet their distressed appearance, their lack of vigilance, rendered him careless.  They seemed too weak to resist, too exhausted to fight; the cold plucking at their hearts had seemingly already conquered.  It was this impression which caused him to act recklessly, rising to his feet, rifle in hand, directly in their track, halting their advance with stern command.

“Hands up!  Quick now, the three of you!  Don’t wait, Dupont; I ’ve got the drop!”

The white man was in front, a huge, shapeless figure in his furs, his black beard frosted oddly.  He stood motionless, astounded at this strange apparition in blue cavalry overcoat, which had sprung up so suddenly in that wilderness.  For an instant he must have deemed the vision confronting him some illusion of the desert, for he never stirred except to rub a gloved hand across his eyes.

“By all the gods, Dupont,” roared the Sergeant impatiently, “do you want me to shoot?  Damn you, throw up your hands!”