The long day wore wearily away to the penned-up emigrants inclosed in their cluster of wagons, and the night drew on apace, but brought them no relief.

Suddenly Mustang Max bethought himself of a forgotten circumstance.

When Frank Reade left him he gave him one of his prepared rockets, with instructions how to use it, and told the tall guide that he might chance to see it and come to his aid if sent up at night when he was in peril.

“Dang me if I don’t try the new-fangled thing,” said Max, and hunting up the chemical preparation he hastened to attach it to a stick.

He applied a light to it, and with a loud whizz away went the brilliant signal-light in the air.

High up towards the heavens sped the lurid dart of flame, and many eyes beheld its flight with wonder.

Anxiously Mustang Max scanned the heavens.

“If that boy sees my light he’ll know enough to answer it,” muttered the tall chap. “He’s a terror when he drives that Steam Horse of his, and I wouldn’t be a bit afraid to charge them cusses out yonder if I had him to back me up with that consarn.”

He was looking all around the dark sky as he spoke.

The light of his very brilliant rocket had died away.

Suddenly, from the far southwest, there appeared an answering rocket.

“There it is,” cried Mustang Max.

Grandly it sailed up into the air, its course marked by dropping points of parti-colored flame; and, then, with a graceful curve, it slowly descended and died away.

“Eureka!” cried Max.

“What it is?”

“What does it mean?”

“Who are you signaling?”

“What does it mean?”

“Is that cavalry?”

These, and a dozen questions of like nature were shot at Mustang Max, but the guide laughed gleefully.

“Cavalry be blessed,” he said. “No, boys, I was signaling Frank Reade and his Steam Horse, and I’ve got my answer. I’d rather have him than any company of cavalry.”

“So would we.”

“He’s a terror.”

“If he comes we are saved.”

These remarks from the emigrants were of a character to indicate the estimation in which they held our hero and his wonderful invention.

“How far away is he?” asked one of the men.

“I can’t tell,” said the guide. “He may be one mile, and he may be fifteen or twenty. You can’t tell anything by a light in the sky at night, for it’s a mighty deceptive thing. But you can bet your sweet life that he won’t be very long in getting here now after he’s been signaled.”

“I hope the reds will keep off until he arrives,” said one.

“I am afraid of them when they come in the dark,” said another.

“Afraid?” cried Max.

“Not for myself,” said the man, a resolute-looking young pioneer. “But afraid of my beautiful young bride. If they had her in their hands and I lay on the ground wounded, what do you suppose I’d do?”

“What?” asked several.

“I’d try to put a bullet through her dear heart and let her die a painless death before she should suffer at their hands, the red fiends!” said the young man, with earnestness and warmth. “Oh, my God! how I blush for the weak, miserable policy of our great men in public office. Here are we near the year eighteen hundred and sixty. I can look back, close my eyes, and in my mind see the terrible defeat of General Braddock a century ago, and when I open my eyes what do I then see? Indians! red devils, scalping the living and the dead at the present hour as they did in the last century, when Braddock sustained that awful defeat; and then I blush to think that the men in office, the leaders in politics of my well loved native land, are still at their weak, humdrum policy. They are still fighting the Indians.”

And with an expression of contempt on his eloquent face the young man turned away, while the men around him sent up a murmur of approval for his words of censure.

“Dang me if he ain’t right now,” said Mustang Max. “This government ought to be ashamed to fight a few thousand miserably armed men for nigh onto a hundred years, and get licked half of the time at that. It’s a shame.”

Just as the guide was giving utterance to his sentiments a low whistle came from the prairie.

He had posted men on duty, and knew that this was a signal to the wagons.

He answered the whistle in a manner agreed upon, and then crawled out of the inclosure and slowly worked his way through the grass toward his keen-eared sentry.

He whistled softly, was answered, and in a moment was beside the outpost, who lay length-wise on the ground, his eyes turned toward the camp of the redskins under Van Dorn and the half-breed.

“Danger?” said Max.

“Yes, they’re on the move.”

“What did you see?”

“The light of a pipe as it moved around in a circle.”

“Shew!” whistled Mustang Max. “That is a council.”

“What for?” asked the outpost.

“To decide whether they had better tackle us again or not,” said the guide. “They got a decent dose this morning, you see, and they don’t feel over and above sure of being able to scalp us.”

“I see.”

They lay perfectly still, and watched the camp of the enemy.

It was nearly a quarter of a mile from them, and in the pale light of the stars but very little could be made out with any degree of surety.

But Max could see the council pipe as it circulated, and he knew that the crisis would soon be reached.

“Only I hope they’ll keep off until Frank Reade gets here,” said the guide.

While he watched the pipe it suddenly went out of sight.

“Council’s over,” said Max. “Now we’ll see what the verdict is.”

The starlight was bright enough to show him what followed.

The tents were taken down with incredible celerity, and put somewhere out of sight, and the neighing of the horses could be heard as the Indians moved among them.

“What does it mean?”

The question came from the outpost.

“Cuss me if I don’t think they are folding their tents like those eastern cusses, what do ye call ’em, Arabs I think, for to silently steal away.”

“I hope so,” said the other.

“So do I,” said Max. “And I really think they will move off without leaving us a lock of their hair.”

But the tall guide was mistaken about the intentions of the redskins.

Their council had decided to strike the tents, pile them upon the backs of the horses, ready to mount and fly in case of defeat, and then to crawl over the prairie and attack the emigrants on foot, hoping to surprise them.

But Mustang Max was on the watch and noted their approach.

His lynx eyes detected stealthy forms moving through the grass, and he readily conjectured that the enemy must be coming upon him after all.

They came very near stealing a march on him by sending some of their men around to the other side of the wagons, and had it not been for the quick ears of a sentry posted at that part much damage might have been done.

But the alarm was given, the sentries all came in, and everything was prepared for defense.

At this moment, just when a perfect stillness hung over everything, the sound of a shrill whistle came distinctly over the plains.

“That’s the Steam Horse,” said Max. “They’ll soon be here.”

“Whoop!”

A shrill yell rang out.

Then came a chorus of horrid yells, and the redskins rushed forward.

Crash!

A random volley was poured in over the shafts of the wagons.

One or two of the emigrants fell, badly wounded, but none were killed by the random fire.

“Ready!” yelled Mustang Max.

Every muzzle was directed outwards as the foe came rushing up with a reckless burst of speed.

“Fire!”

The thundering rattle of the guns followed closely on the order.

A chorus of cries, a concert of yells and groans rang out.

Near at hand pealed forth shrill whistles in quick succession, and two streams of tapering light flashed with far-reaching radiance over the prairie.

The Steam Man and the Steam Horse were at hand.

Like meteors they sped over the course, level as a trotting road, and bore down upon the wagons.

The Indians were trying to carry Mustang Max’s barricade by storm when the loud whistles sounded.

As the headlights of the two wonderful prairie travelers flashed upon them, they tried to turn tail and run away to the spot where their horses stood.

Then the voice of the tall guide rang out in thunder tones:

“After them! Cut them down without a bit of mercy! Wipe the scoundrels from the face of the earth!”

“Hurrah!” yelled the emigrants; and over the wagons they clambered and dashed after the flying foe.

With a mighty rush the two monsters, the man and the horse charged down upon the demoralized horde, trampling them under foot.

The iron hoofs, sharp spiked, of the Steam Horse created terrible havoc, and the man fairly walked over the redskins with his gigantic strides.

Right and left the avenging emigrants struck.

Crack! crack! went the weapons of the men in the wagons, and Indian after Indian fell lifeless to the plain.

The half-breed turned to fight, nerved to desperation; but Pomp shot him fairly through the heart, and without a sound he fell dead.

Steadily onward went the slaughter, man after man being cut down without any mercy, until but one was left, the arch-villain, James Van Dorn.

With wonderful speed he dashed towards the grove.

The man and the horse were speeding in different directions, chasing around in a sort of harum-scarum style, and only the emigrants were in pursuit of the wretch.

His wonderful burst of speed made his escape possible, and with a heart beating high with hope, he dashed onward for the horses, feeling that if he could leap upon the back of a fleet steed that he was safe.

A slender form sprang up as he neared the horses, an arm and hand were extended with a quick motion, and a flash of fire and a loud report told the villain’s doom.

With a loud cry James Van Dorn fell to the ground, shot down by the hands of Ralph Radcliffe.

The son had avenged the father.

The outlaw was dying when the emigrants gathered around him, his life-blood slowly ebbing from a wound very near to his heart.

They saw that he wanted to speak, so they raised him up and put some brandy down his throat.

“I killed his father,” he said, pointing to Ralph, as the boy stood before him with the smoking pistol in his hand. “It’s a square deal, for he only avenged the old man’s murder and I’m satisfied. If I’d lived, I’d had a rollicking time with all the money, but he’s fetched me up standing at last.”

Here the villain grew weak, and his voice husky.

They gave him more brandy, but he failed to rally, and without another word he went to the bar of God.

He had been overtaken and punished at last.

They left his body to the vultures with the rest of the wretches he had herded with, and went back with Ralph to shake hands with Frank Reade.