“Narry a place,” answered Ike Fairweather.
They plodded on, Grace, if anything, being the most cheerful and contented member of the party. At break of day they halted, having made about ten miles of the thirty. From the little kit pack in which each one carried emergency rations, they eked out a slender breakfast, though they had neither coffee nor tea, that part of the food supply being at the bottom of the canyon in the wreckage of the old Deadwood coach. The prisoners, however, refused to eat, maintaining a sullen silence as they watched their captors partaking of breakfast.
At the noon halt, Grace and Elfreda dressed the prisoners’ wounds, binding them up with skillful hands with pieces of cloth torn from skirts. It was not the first time that either Grace Harlowe or Elfreda Briggs had dressed bullet wounds, both having been called upon to do so in numerous instances on the western front in France. The prisoners watched the dressing operations without uttering a word of comment, but the expressions on their faces were not pleasant to look upon.
Ike, who had been regarding the wound-dressing with interest, turned, as the girls finished their work, and walked away running his fingers through his whiskers.
The prisoners were placed on the horses and secured, after which the party started on again.
“Horses comin’ up the trail,” announced Ike, a few moments later, holding up a hand for the party to stop.
Grace ran forward to halt the two horses carrying the four girls.
“Some one is coming, girls. Go back and get out of the way in case there should be trouble,” she directed.
Grace joined Ike after the girls had taken up a safe position, Hippy standing expectantly by the prisoners, the outfit, with rifles in hand, ready to meet whatever trouble might be in store for them.
Three horsemen swept around a bend in the trail, and the instant they hove in sight, Ike Fairweather uttered a shout.