“Can they see us, Loyalheart?” whispered Miss Briggs.
“No, I think not. The camp lies in a deep shadow and we have no fire burning. Hark!”
“I hear it,” muttered Lieutenant Wingate. “I hear horses trotting.”
“Hold your fire and await developments. We must not make the mistake of shooting at some one who doesn’t deserve it,” cautioned Grace.
“Merciful heaven! What is that?” cried J. Elfreda.
A shrill, weird yell, which Grace instantly recognized as an Indian war whoop, split the stillness of mountain and canyon. Many had been the time in the forest depths that Grace Harlowe’s husband had uttered this thrilling war cry for her benefit, in fact he had taught Grace herself to do it.
“A war whoop,” she answered.
“Steady, girls! We’re going to get it,” warned Hippy.
“Down flat, everybody!” called Grace.
The hoof-beats of the galloping horses of the night marauders were now plainly heard by each member of the Overton party. Another yell, then a rattling rifle fire swept the camp.