A bound brought Douglas to the young woman’s side. It was the work of a moment, to snatch her from the saddle and bear her limp form up the slope. Relieved of its fair burden, the terrorized pony turned and fled up the trail, with the stampeding pack-horses snorting and panting behind it. As they labored up the steep grade, with their heavy packs still clinging tenaciously to them, their terror gradually subsided; and near the top of the hill, the Indians surrounded and caught them.
When the stampede had thundered by, Bradford got upon his feet and stared wildly around. In the deep gloom he caught a dim outline of Douglas supporting the trembling form of La Violette. Running to them, he exclaimed in a voice faltering with emotion:
“Both of you are alive. But are you unharmed?”
“Unharmed and untouched,” Ross replied calmly.
“Thank God!” was the fervent response.
The young woman lifted her head from Douglas’s shoulder and, gently withdrawing from his embrace, said tremulously:
“I sincerely thank you for rescuing me from death. But I do not know you. Will you tell me to whom I owe my life?”
She spoke in excellent English, but with a slightly foreign accent. After a moment’s silence, Ross answered:
“My name is Ross Douglas.”
“You are an American?”