“They are closing in, I reckon,” he thought soberly, “and it is n’t likely there will be any more of these gentry as far back as this; looks as though this gully turned west just beyond.  Anyhow I ’ve got to risk it.”

He returned more rapidly, knowing the passage, yet with no less caution, finding the unconscious girl lying exactly as he had left her.  As he clasped her form in his arms, her lips uttered some incoherent words, but otherwise she gave no sign of life.

“Yes, yes,” he whispered close to her ear, hoping thus to hold her silent.  “It is all right now; only keep still.”

He could feel her breathing, and realized the danger of her return to consciousness.  If she should be frightened and cry out, their fate would be sealed.  Yet he must accept the chance, now that he knew the way to be clear.  He held her tightly in both arms, his revolver thrust back into its holster.  Bending as low as he could with his burden, feeling carefully through the darkness before advancing a foot, he moved steadily forward.  Where the gully deepened their heads were at the edge of the bank, but much of the way was exposed, except for the dark shadows of the slope.  Fortunately there were clouds to the west, already obscuring that half of the sky, but to the east nothing was visible against the faint luminousness of the sky-line.  Once, far over there to the left, a gun was fired, the flame splitting the night asunder, and against the distant reflection a black figure rose up between, only to be instantly snuffed out again.  Hamlin put down his uplifted foot, and waited, in tense, motionless silence, but nothing happened, except the echo of a far-away voice.

A dozen feet farther, some four-footed animal suddenly leaped to the edge of the bank, sniffed, and disappeared noiselessly.  So taut were his nerves strung that the Sergeant sank upon his knees, releasing one hand to grip his revolver, before he realized the cause of alarm—­some prowling prairie wolf.  Then, with teeth grimly locked, bending lower and lower, he crept across the rutted trail, and past the dead body of the Indian.  Not until then did he dare to breathe naturally or to stand upright; but now, the gully, bending to the right, led away from danger, every step gained adding to their safety.  He was confident now, full of his old audacity, yet awake to every trick of plainscraft.  The girl’s head rested against his shoulder, and he bent his cheek to hers, feeling its warmth.  The touch of his unshaven beard pricked her into semi-consciousness, and she spoke so loud that it gave him a thrill of apprehension.  He dared not run in the darkness for fear of stumbling, yet moved with greater swiftness, until the depression ended at the river.  Here, under the protection of the bank, Hamlin put down his burden and stood erect, stretching his strained muscles and staring back into the dark.