“That buckskin’s the devil’s own,” protested Travers, careful to keep well to one side.

“I ’ll take it out of him before morning,” was the reply.  “Come on, boy! easy now—­easy!  How about the rations, Captain?”

“Carter will have them for you at the gate of the stockade.  Do you know the trail?”

“Well enough to follow—­yes.”

McDonald was waiting with Carter, and the dim gleam of the lantern revealed his face.

“Remember, Sergeant, you are to make her turn back if you can.  Tell her I wish her to do so—­yes, this letter will explain everything, but she is a pretty high-spirited girl, and may take the bit in her teeth—­imagine she ’d rather be here with me, and all that.  If she does I suppose you ’ll have to let her have her own way—­the Lord knows her mother always did.  Anyhow you ’ll stay with her till she ’s safe.”

“I sure will,” returned the Sergeant, gathering up his reins.  “Good-bye to you.”

“Good-bye and good luck,” and McDonald put out his hand, which the other took hesitatingly.  The next instant he was in the saddle, and with a wild leap the startled mustang rounded the edge of the bluff, flying into the night.

All had occurred so quickly that Hamlin’s mind had not yet fully adjusted itself to all the details.  He was naturally a man of few words, deciding on a course of action quietly, yet not apt to deviate from any conclusion finally reached.  But he had been hurried, pressed into this adventure, and now welcomed an opportunity to think it all out coolly.  At first, for a half mile or more, the plunging buckskin kept him busy, bucking viciously, rearing, leaping madly from side to side, practising every known equine trick to dislodge the grim rider in the saddle.  The man fought out the battle silently, immovable as a rock, and apparently as indifferent.  Twice his spurs brought blood, and once he struck the rearing head with clenched fist.  The light of the stars revealed the faint lines of the trail, and he was content to permit the maddened brute to race forward, until, finally mastered, the animal settled down into a swift gallop, but with ears laid back in ugly defiance.  The rider’s gray eyes smiled pleasantly as he settled more comfortably into the saddle, peering out from beneath the stiff brim of his scouting hat; then they hardened, and the man swore softly under his breath.

The peculiar nature of this mission which he had taken upon himself had been recalled.  He was always doing something like that—­permitting himself to become involved in the affairs of others.  Now why should he be here, riding alone through the dark to prevent this unknown girl from reaching Devere?  She was nothing to him—­even that glimpse of her pictured face had not impressed him greatly; rather interesting, to be sure, but nothing extraordinary; besides he was not a woman’s man, and, through years of isolation, had grown to avoid contact with