“Oh, you are no prodigal, Mr. Hudson,” observed Henry.  “We’ve heard all about you; you are too brave.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Henry.  No, I’ve not wasted my substance in riotous living, nor have I eaten husks, but I’ve been prodigal in wasting opportunities.”

“Lost a whole college year, haven’t you?” I asked.

“I hope not.  There is a German university man at La Paz who has been coaching me.  He thinks if I keep at work until after Christmas I can go on with my old class.  This is my last trip, and if I escape the Apaches once more I’m going to lay off and work hard for a few months, and then return to New Havbridge for examination.  There’s something in that letter that concerns me.”

Opening the letter, I learned that Captain Bayard knew Mr. Hudson’s story.  He said this was to be the last trip of the courier, but that after his return to La Paz he would come out to meet me at Tyson’s Wells and report whether the horse-thieves were in town.  He also suggested that in establishing a transshipment storehouse at the steamboat-landing I place Hudson in charge.  The pay would be of use to him while “making up.”

The courier wished us a pleasant journey, and rode away at a scrambling canter up the pass.  He had been gone but a few moments when I heard a shout, and, looking up, saw him standing on a pinnacle by the way-side, on the summit of the ascent.  He was looking in the opposite direction, and I saw him fire three shots from his carbine in rapid succession.  Dismounting the men, I made rapid preparations to meet an attack, and proceeded to work our way slowly up the height, and when we reached the narrow level at the top we found Hudson and the two soldiers that formed our advance occupying a shelter among the rocks to the left, and gazing down the opposite slope.

“What is it, Hudson?” I asked.

“A party of Indians attempted to jump me here.  There they go now—­across that opening in the sage-brush!”

A dozen Indians dashed across an open space south of the road, but too far away for effective shooting, and then two more passed over, supporting a third between them.

“You must have hit one of them.”

“I tried to.  I think another was hurt more seriously, by the way he acknowledged my shot.”

“Are you hurt?”

“A slight scratch on the arm near the shoulder, and my horse is hurt.”

An examination of Hudson’s arm proved that the scratch was not serious, but I thought it best to exchange his horse for one belonging to a soldier.  We then went on, Frank and I walking in advance of the ambulance mules.

“There’s something down there in the road by Ferrier’s grave, sir,” said Corporal Duffey.  “Looks like a dead man.”

“Is that where Ferrier was killed?” I asked.

“Yes, sir; I was in command of the detail that came here to look him up.  He had built a little stone fort on that knoll up yonder, and kept the redskins off three days.  He kept a diary, you remember, which we found.  He killed six of them, and might as many more, but he couldn’t live without sleep or food, and the rascals got him.  They scattered the mail in shreds for miles about here.”