CHAPTER IV.
The pursuing redskins were all of a third of a mile from the ridge, when the double-weighted horse disappeared over it.
With a delay of a few minutes, and relieved of his double load, Kit Carey was assured he could force the Indians to give up their chase after the young girl.
A glance showed him that the animal was running well, and then he sprang to the shelter of some rocks and laid the two holster revolvers before him, for they were long range weapons.
"This is for the forlorn hope," he said, grimly as he patted the smaller revolver in his sword-belt.
On up the trail came the redskins at full speed, yelling like demons, and feeling confident of their prey.
As the leaders rushed over the ridge they beheld a sight that was wholly unexpected to them.
There over half a mile away was flying along the trail the horse upon which Emma Foshay was mounted, and right in their path, to bar their way, upright, determined, and at bay, a revolver in each hand, and but his head and shoulders seen above the rocks, stood Kit Carey.
There was a look upon his face that was dangerous—a determination to fight it out right then and there against all odds.