At the ranch a strange cloak of silence hung around the household in regard to the horse-stealing. The men, hearing of the night raid, had endeavored to keep it from the women for fear of giving them uneasiness, but had not altogether succeeded. Jim had frustrated that attempt by forgetting, and blurting out at the dinner table something about Genesee's arrest.

"It isn't true; it can't be true!" and Rachel turned with such an appeal in her tired eyes that Andrews dropped his own.

"It's true, Miss; he's accused of knowin' all about it, even if he didn't help. It's supposed to be his Kootenai friends that did it, and they say he's mighty close-mouthed over it; that tells against him. I hope to God it ain't true, for he seemed a mighty good man; but he's under guard at the camp; won't allow folks to see him, I hear—leastwise, no Injuns."

Rachel glanced at the others, but found in their faces no strong partisanship for Genesee. Tillie and Fred were regretful, but not hopeful.

"It seems a shame that such a fine-looking fellow should be a squaw man," said the Major's daughter; "but since he is one, there is not much to be hoped of him, though papa did have a wonderful lot of faith in this one."

Rachel's eyes lightened at the words. "What day do they look for your father back?" she asked quickly.

"To-day or to-morrow, though this snow may hinder them some."

"Well, he can't get here any too soon," chipped in the loquacious Jim. "I reckon they—"

Then his discourse was cut short by the toe of Andrews' boot under the table. Although the horse-stealing was known at the ranch, and now the suspicion of Genesee, yet there was one thing that Andrews and Ivans had maneuvered to keep quiet, and that was the absence of Hardy and Stuart, and the fact that hostile Indians had descended from the hills.

Apocryphal stories had been told Tillie of an early supper her husband and guest had eaten at camp, and a ride they had taken after stock overlooked the night before; and the hours dragged on, the night came, and the two conspirators were gaining themselves the serious anxiety they had endeavored to shield the women from, and Jim, once outside the door, was threatened with instant annihilation if he let his tongue run so far ahead of his wit again.

The ladies had decided not to tell Rachel about Genesee—Tillie had so clear a remembrance of her stubborn friendliness for that outlaw; but Jim had settled the question of silence, and all the weariness dropped from her at thought of what that accusation meant to him—death. Once she got up with the strong light of hope in her eyes, and running across the snow in the dark, opened the door of the stable where Jim was bedding the horses.

"Jim!" she called sharply; "when was it the stock was run off from camp—what time?"

"Early this mornin'," answered that youth sulkily. He had just received the emphatic warning against "tattling."

"This morning? What time this morning?"

"Oh, early; afore daylight."

Before daylight! She had gained a wild hope that it was during the time they were together; but from Jim's vague suggestion they had returned just about the time it had occurred—in time for it. She turned hopelessly toward the house, then hesitated and came back.

"Jim."

"Well?"

"Is Mowitza here?"

"Yes, can't you see?"

But she could not see very clearly. Something in her eyes blinded her as she thought of Mowitza and the glad days when they knew each other first; and of Mowitza's master, and his voice as she had heard it last—and the words! Oh, the despairing, exultant, compelling words! And then, after he had gone from her, could it be so?

"Take good care of the mare, Jim, until—until he needs her."

When the girl re-entered the house, Tillie turned with a lecture to deliver on the idiocy of going out without a wrap; it was not spoken, for a glance into Rachel's eyes told she had been crying—something so unusual as to awe the little woman into silence, and perplex her mightily. Headstrong as the girl had been in her championship of Genesee, Tillie had always been very sure that the cause was mainly Rachel's contrariness; and to associate him with the tears never entered her mind.

The evening wore on, and about the fire there were conjectures about the protracted stay of Hardy and Stuart, and wonderment from Fred that not a man had called from the camp all day and evening. Rachel sat silent, thinking—thinking, and finding a glimmer of hope in the thought that Major Dreyer would soon be back; there, she felt, would be no prejudiced mind come to judgment.

At last they were startled by the sound of a step on the porch, and all looked around, glad of the return of the two wanderers, when the door opened, and there entered Kalitan—a very tired-looking Arrow, and with something in his face that was more than fatigue—anxiety.

"Rashell Hardy?" he said, and deliberately walked into the other room, intimating that she was to follow and the interview to be private—an interview conducted in low tones and in Chinook, after which Rachel asked Aunty Luce to give him some supper; for he was very tired, and would not go on to camp until morning.

The night before had been one of wakefulness, because of Rachel's absence, and all were sleepy enough to hunt beds early; and leaving a lunch on the table for the absent ones, the hearth was soon deserted—Ivans and Andrews, however, agreeing to sleep with one eye open.

Both must have closed unawares, or else the moccasined feet that stole out in the darkness must have been very, very light, and the other figure beside him very stealthy; for no alarm was given, no ear took note. It was late, past eleven o'clock, when the sentry challenged a horse and rider coming as briskly and nonchalantly into camp as if it had been eleven in the morning, and occasioning as much astonishment as had Genesee, when it was seen to be Miss Hardy.

"Rather late to be out alone, Miss, ain't it?" asked the sentry, as she stopped to chat with him of the continued absence of the men.

"Is it?" she laughed. "I don't know what you call late over here; but I suppose we of the ranch would be considered night-owls. I rode over with some mail that came late, and thought I'd hear if there was any news before we went to bed. Who's in command?"

"Lieutenant Kennedy; but he turned in an hour ago."

"Good gracious! Do you folks go to bed with the sun? I have a magazine for him, but he can wait for it, then, until to-morrow. Tell him I will expect him over."

"Yes, Miss."

Just then from along the avenue sauntered a soldierly figure, who drew near at the sound of voices.

"There comes Sergeant Kelp," remarked the sentry. "He's on night duty in Kennedy's place."

Instantly the girl turned to the officer in charge.

"Well, I'm glad to find someone up and awake," she said, leaning over to shake hands with him. "It helps to keep me from seeming altogether a night-prowler. I came over to get the returns, if there were any. The folks are getting anxious at the ranch."

"Naturally," answered the young fellow. "I would have called this evening, but am on duty. Don't let the ladies worry if you can help it. We are likely to hear from the men before morning. Every scout we had went with them, and without horses we can't do much but just stay here and wait; all the boys find it mighty hard work, too."

"You remind me of half my mission, Sergeant, when you speak of your scouts. I brought over some mail, and everyone I wanted to see is either away or asleep. How about your chief of scouts—is he asleep, too?"

It seemed to her that her heart ceased beating, the wind ceased blowing, and the stars ceased twinkling above the snow, as she waited for his disgusted reply.

"No; not by a good deal. I never saw such a crank as that fellow! When everything was smooth sailing, that man would skulk around camp without a word to speak to anyone, the surliest white man I want to see; but now that he's jailed for horse-stealing, tied up and watched in the shack, I'm blest if he doesn't put in the time singing. Yes, he does; been at it ever since taps. I threatened to have him gagged if he disturbed the boys; but they say he don't. Roberts is the only one who has to listen to it; says he never heard so many Indian songs in his life. But it's a mighty queer streak of luck for a man to be musical over."

Rachel laughed, and agreed. "I have a letter for him, too," she added. "Look, here; I'd like to take it to him myself, and get to hear some of those songs. Can I? I know it's rather late, but if he is awake, it doesn't matter, I suppose; or is no one allowed to see him?"

"Indians only are tabooed, but none of them have shown up, not even his runner, and I guess you can speak to him if you want to; it isn't a thing most ladies would like to do, though," he added.

"I suppose not," she said good-humoredly, "but then, I've known the man for something over a year, and am not at all afraid—in fact, I'd rather like to do it and have something to horrify the ladies at the ranch with. Think of it! An interview with a horse-thief—perhaps a duet with him all alone in the middle of the night. Oh, yes, that's too good to miss. But I must hurry up, or they will be sending someone after me."

At the door of the shack, however, she paused a moment in what might be trepidation, her hand laid hesitatingly on the saddle, as if in doubt whether to remount or enter the shanty, from which she could hear the low refrain of a song of their cultus corrie—"Tsolo, tsolo!"

"The guard will not leave the door?" she whispered; and Sergeant Kelp concluded that, after all, she was pretending to greater nerve than she possessed.

"Never fear," he returned; "I will call him out to hold your horse, and he won't stir from the door. By the way, I'll have someone to see you home when you're ready to go. Good-night."

Then the guard was called out, and a moment later the visitor slipped in, the prisoner never turning his head or noticing the exchange until she spoke.

"Jack!"

He turned quickly enough.

"God A'mighty, girl! What are you doing here?"

She thought of the ears, possibly listening ears, on the other side of the door, and her tone was guarded and careless, as it had been with the Sergeant, as she laughed and answered in Chinook:

"To pay a visit; what else?"

She noticed with exultation that it was only rope he was tied with—his hands and his feet, as he sat on the bunk—a plaited rope of rawhide; strong enough when strengthened by a guard opposite and a loaded gun; but without the guard and with a keen knife!

She checked him in the midst of a passionate protest against her coming.

"I am here, so that fact is settled," she said quietly. "I didn't come for fun, and we haven't any time to lose. I brought you a letter; it is in this," she said.

"You have seen Kalitan?"

He took from her the rubber case and extracted the letter from it, but scarcely noticed it, his eyes were turned so anxiously to her face.

"Yes; and you had better read it," she advised, walking back to the door.

"Rachel—"

"Read it; let them see you!" and she opened the door wide and stepped out as if to make sure of the guard's presence.

"It's all right, Miss, I'm here," he whispered, looking past her to the prisoner opening the letter and throwing the envelope in the fire. "I'll not stir from here with the beast. Don't be uneasy;" and then she turned back and closed the door. She had seen he was not close enough to listen.

"Jack," she said, coming back to him, "you must get out of this. Mowitza is at the door; I have brought the things you will need. Can you make a dash for it and get away?"

He looked at her in utter amazement.

"I didn't know it until to-night," she continued; "this is your chance, before the others get back—if they ever do get back! God help them!"

"What do you mean? Where are they?" And his hand, tied as it was, caught her own quickly.

"They are in a death-trap, in that gully back of the Tamahnous ground. You know where—right over the peak from the old mine. They've been there since dark, hedged in by the Kootenais, who are only waiting for daylight to come. Heaven help our men when it does come!"

"The Kootenais? It can't be them. They are not hostile."

"Not yesterday," she agreed bitterly, "but they are to-day. They sent a messenger of good-will to camp this morning, the grandson of Grey Eagle. He was shot down, almost in sight of camp, by one of the soldiers, and the braves he had brought, the best in the tribe, attempted a rescue. Our cavalry pursued them, and were led into that ravine. The Indians knew the ground, and our men didn't. At the end of the narrow pass, the reds rolled boulders down the mountain and closed it up, and then cut off retreat; and there they are, waiting for daylight or starvation—God knows what!"

"Who told you this?"

"Kalitan; he met an Indian trapper who had passed the gulch but a little while before. He came directly to me. The whites here blame you for helping the trouble—the beginning it, the—"

"You mean the horse stealing?" he said, looking at her curiously.

"Yes." Her eyes were on the floor; she did not see that scrutiny. "And you must get out of here before word comes of those men penned up there. There would be no waiting for trial then; they would shoot you."

"And that is what you came for?"

"Yes;" and she drew a sharp knife—an Indian knife—from her belt under the shawl. "With a quick stroke, the severed the knotted cords and they fell from his wrists; then she dropped on her knees, a flash, once, twice, of the blade in the light, and he stooped and raised her.

"You are doing this for me," he said, drawing her to him, "without knowing whether I deserve shooting or not?"

"Don't speak of that part of it!" she burst out. "When I let myself think, I feel as if I am going crazy!"—then she stopped short. "And a crazy woman just now would handicap you some. No, Jack, we need all of our wits for to-night—here," and unfastening the belt from under her shawl, she buckled it about him. It contained two loaded revolvers.

"It's the first time I've armed you as I've seen sweethearts or wives do," she said, looking up at him. "It may be the last. I only ask one thing—you will not, unless it is the last means of saving your own life, turn one of these against my friends?"

Even then, the weakness of the man in him came uppermost.

"But if it is to save my own life?"

Her hands went quickly over her eyes, as if to shut out sight or thought.

"Don't ask me—only go—and—take care of yourself!"

He caught the hands from her eyes, kissing her fiercely—exultantly.

"Then I am first to you—nearer than all the rest! My girl, you've proved it to-night, and I'll show you! If you know how to pray, pray for me to-night—for me and the men in that death-trap. Do you hear? I am going now. Here is this letter; it will tell you all. If I never come back, tell Prince Charlie he is right at last—that I believe him. He will understand. My girl—mine—it is not an eternal good-bye. I will come back if I live, and I will have to live long enough for that! Here, just once, kiss me, my girl—my girl!"

The next instant she was flung from that embrace and fell with a faint scream to the floor.

The guard dashed in, and was dextrously tripped by an unlooked-for figure close to the wall, his gun wrenched from him, and a staggering blow dealt that sent him to his knees.

Clouds had swept over the cold stars, and the sentry could see but dimly the equestrian figure that came clattering down the avenue.

"Hadn't you better wait for company, Miss?" he called, but no answer was given; and in much wonder, he was about to call again, when pistol-shots from the shack aroused the camp. He called a halt; that was heeded no more than his question, and he sent a random shot after the flying figure—not for the purpose of hitting the girl, but to impress on her the duty of a sentry and some idea of military rule. Before the last dull thud of hoofs in the snow had ceased to be heard, Roberts had staggered to the door, firing wildly, and calling to stop the prisoner—to stop the horse-thief.

There was nothing in the camp to do it with. He was gone—everyone was blaming everybody else for it; but no one thought of blaming the girl who lay in a dead faint on the floor, where he had flung her, that none might think she had let him go willingly. And Miss Rachel was cared for very tenderly, and a man was sent to the ranch to assure Mrs. Hardy of her safe-keeping, waking Mrs. Hardy out of a delicious sleep, and mystifying her completely by the information. The only one about the house who might have helped elucidate happened to be remarkably sound asleep at the time the messenger arrived—an Arrow encased in the quiver of rest.