The colored servant Dinah never knew how near she came to being shot by her own master. Had she delayed speaking for a second, he would have discharged two more chambers of his revolver, and the distance was so slight, and her head was in such position, that there could have been no miss.

“Good Heavens!” gasped the captain, “I never dreamed that was you, Dinah.”

“But I knowed it war you. How is you gettin’ ’long?”

“I’m all right, but where is your mistress?”

“Downsta’rs tending to tings.”

“But––but do you know there’s an Indian in the house?”

“I reckons so; we didn’t know it at fust, but we found it out putty soon after he arrove; why didn’t you told us?”

“I tried to do so, but was afraid you wouldn’t hear my voice.”

“We heerd you say somefin, but couldn’t quite make out what it was.”

“But what of the Indian?” asked the captain, who was now at the scuttle with his hand on the door.

“He am all right; and if you don’t t’ink so, jes’ come down and see for you’self.”

Dinah stepped out of the way, and her master lost no time in descending through the opening into the dark room below.

“Fasten the door, for there may be more of them trying to enter.”

“I doesn’t t’ink so,” was the confident reply.

Nevertheless, Dinah reached up and fastened the hook in place, making it as secure as before.

“Is your mistress safe?” asked Captain Shirril, the moment he was within the apartment.

“Didn’t I jes’ tole you she was? Does you t’ink I would try to deceibe you?”

“But tell me how it is; this strikes me as the strangest part of the whole business.”

Standing thus, in the stillness and gloom of the upper room, the servant related in her characteristic way the extraordinary experience of herself and mistress with the dusky intruder.

As she had said, the warning which the captain shouted from the roof was heard by them, but the words were not understood.

Mrs. Shirril, however, was keen-witted enough to suspect the truth. The muffled tones showed that her husband was on the roof, while the noise of the body dropping upon the chair proved that someone had entered by that means. That being the case, the stranger of necessity must be a foe, against whose evil intentions they must prepare themselves without delay.

“One of the Indians has dropped through the scuttle,” said the startled lady.

“Anoder ob dem warmints has comed into my room, eh?” muttered the angered servant; “I’ll sarve him wuss dan the oder one.”

“You will not find the task so easy; keep at my side, make no noise, and don’t stir till I tell you.”

By this time, the embers on the hearth were so low that they gave out only a faint illumination, which extended but a foot or two into the room. The women had kept their places near the door, where, as will be remembered, they noticed a pressure, as if someone was trying to shove it open.

Light-footed as was the Comanche, his weight was too great, and his descent too sudden, for him to keep the knowledge from the women below-stairs. They stepped softly away from the door, and into the denser gloom, where they were unable to see each other, although their persons touched. In this attitude, they could do nothing for a time but listen with rapidly beating hearts.

The dusky intruder dropped so squarely on the chair that it did not overturn. He kept his place, instantly securing the scuttle against the entrance of the white man, whom he had baffled with such cleverness. Probably he had some idea of taking a shot at 155 him, but the little manoeuvring in which he indulged told him the danger was too great, and he gave over the purpose.

The stillness in the room was so profound that the women plainly heard his moccasins touch the floor, when he stepped from the chair. Then he began gliding softly about the apartment, like a burglar who is obliged to feel every inch of his way with hands and feet.

Great as was his care, he had not continued this long, when he struck the chair and overturned it.

“De willian!” muttered Dinah, “and dat’s in my abpartment too–––”

“Sh!” whispered her mistress, touching her arm, “he can’t do any harm, and he must not hear us.”

Had Mrs. Shirril given permission, the servant would have hurried up the ladder and taken the fellow to task, without a moment’s delay or hesitation.

But the Comanche was better prepared for his work than they suspected. They plainly heard him scratch a match on the wall of 156 the room, and the next moment the faintest possible glow showed through the gloom, above the open door at the head of the ladder. The redskin was taking the only effectual means at his command to learn his bearings.

With the tiny light still burning, he passed quickly from one room to another, his location being easily told by the listeners below. It took him less than a minute to gain the knowledge he wished, when the match burned out and was flung aside.

“I wonder wheder he’ll set fiah–––”

A sharp pinch on Dinah’s arm warned her that she was displeasing her mistress, and she closed her mouth.

The Comanche was too wise to attempt to go down the ladder with a burning match in his hand. Had he done so, he would have committed the fatal error of the citizen who awakes in the night and sets out with lighted lamp to hunt for a burglar: all the advantage is on the side of the law-breaker.

But the Indian had seen the ladder leading from the second story to the lower floor, and the women were sure he would pay them a 157 visit. Indeed, his errand would be futile unless he did so, for it was not to be supposed that he had come into the cabin through simple curiosity.

Mrs. Shirril had no fear of his trying to burn the structure, for, if he did so, his own situation would be as hopeless as theirs. The sounds of firing and the noise on the roof, which soon reached her ears, caused great uneasiness for her husband, but, like a pioneer’s wife, she gave her whole attention to the peril that confronted her.

Suddenly the servant touched her arm. She did not speak, but her mistress knew the meaning of the act. The Comanche had placed his foot on the upper round of the ladder and was about to descend to the lower apartments, where they were awaiting him.

“Leave him to me,” whispered Mrs. Shirril; “don’t stir or do anything.”

The cunning warrior knew the women were below, and he knew, too, that unless he used extreme caution, he would find himself in a veritable hornet’s nest. The care with which he placed his moccasins on the rounds, and 158 gradually came down, proved this, but the hearing of the women was attuned to so fine an edge that they traced his descent step by step until he stood on the lower floor.

Having arrived there, he paused for a minute or two, as if in doubt what next to do. Evidently he was listening in the hope that the women would betray their presence by some movement, but in this he was mistaken.

During those brief moments, Mrs. Shirril was on the point, more than once, of bringing her rifle to her shoulder and shooting down the wretch who was seeking their lives; but accustomed as she was to the rough experience of the frontier, she could not nerve herself to the point of doing so. She knew the precise spot where he was standing, and, at the first direct approach, she would shoot him as if he was a rabid dog. But so long as he was motionless, she refrained.

What the Comanche would have done at the end of a few minutes it is impossible to say, had not an interruption, as surprising as it was unexpected by all parties, taken place.