"What do you think of this, major?" whispered Harvey. "Those are Americans sure."
"Well, I'd let'em in," said the major; "but where the devil's Feeny? He's the best judge, really. Their story may be all true. They may be alone."
"I don't know; it isn't likely. You heard that voice out there a moment ago; that was Mexican beyond any doubt. We've got to stand those fellows off till we hear from Feeny." Then, raising his voice, Harvey called,—
"Just stay where you are a moment. You're all right perhaps, but our guards have orders to be on the lookout for Morales and his gang, and you might get shot by mistake."
"Well, for God's sake turn out your men, if you've got any, and help us catch these murdering thieves," was the impatient reply. "How many are you?"
"Oh, there's plenty of us here," was Harvey's cheery answer. "Most of 'C' troop; but we've other business on hand just now. You wait there quietly for a minute or two until the sergeant comes around with the patrol; he'll see to you."
And then, as though the whole thing had been planned beforehand, out in the darkness to the north Feeny's voice was heard in low-toned but sharp command,—
"Patrol, halt! Close up there, Kennedy. Where are you, Number Five?" And so, cool and confident as though he had a dozen troopers at his back, Feeny came striding up to the spot.
"What's the matter, sentry? Didn't I hear you parleying here with somebody?"
"Two strangers out there, sergeant;—say they're prospectors and been jumped by Apaches."