"It can have but one meaning," muttered Brinton, with a throbbing heart; "someone is in peril: can it be they?"
He reined up his pony and stood still on the crest of the first elevation he reached, after the ominous sounds fell on his ears.
At that moment he descried coming over another ridge, a furlong away, a troop of thirty or forty cavalry, riding at a gallop toward him.
"That's the escort from Wounded Knee," was his instant conclusion; "I was right when I told Captain Wadsworth that Nick Jackson said the escort was on the way, though I wasn't certain of it."
But evidently the firing had not come from the cavalry. It was from some point between, and, instead of being directly in front, as it first seemed, was off to the right, where he observed a depression, with several dismounted Indians crouching around it.
"Great heavens! it's father fighting them off," he gasped; "he is in that hollow and they have attacked him!"
He struck his heels against the ribs of Jack, fiercely jerked the bridle-rein, and shouted to him to run at his best straight for the spot.
But the approaching cavalry had descried the same thing, and were nearer the hollow than was the youth. They turned the heads of the horses and struck off at full speed.
The assailing Indians, too, had discovered their danger and were seen skurrying for their ponies, waiting near. The obedient animals turned until their masters sprang upon their backs, when they dashed off at full speed, with a single exception. One of them, forgetful of his danger or determined upon revenge, even at the cost of his life, was observed to have something in his arms as he held his ground.
"It is Edith that he is about to slay; maybe he has already killed her! O heaven!" the brother groaned, "is it too late to save her?"