A large, and what appeared cumbersome, pair of well-filled saddle-bags were thrown over the cantle of the saddle, while on one side hung a double field-glass, and on the other side a coiled silver horn.
Replacing his saber in its scabbard, he turned and gazed upon those he had rescued. From one to the other his eyes wandered until they met those of Wayland Sanford, when a strange, wild light flashed in them. A momentary silence ensued. The horseman was the first to speak:
“A warm time you were having, my friends,” he said, in a clear voice.
“Indeed we were,” replied the old colonel, with a nervous tremor in his voice induced by exertion and excitement; “and whom have we the honor of thanking for our rescue?”
“My name is Rodger Rainbolt,” replied the horseman, in his clear, ringing voice, in which there was much of wild bluntness; “and now your name if you please?”
“Wayland Sanford.”
The ranger was silent for a moment, then he asked:
“What brings Wayland Sanford here in these wilds, dressed in the fine clothes of a citizen?”
The colonel informed him of the abduction of his daughter, and that they were in pursuit of the Indians.
“Uh-humph!” ejaculated the ranger, when he had heard the colonel’s story.