The evening was spent in preparations for the start. The camp was abandoned, the women hastily fleeing to the refuge on the mountainside. Three men were to be left to guard the cave, but every woman carried a rifle in her hand and was prepared to use it. Winona was in command of the home-guard.
The last words of counsel and instruction were spoken. It was nearly daylight. Faint streaks of light were already visible in the eastern horizon. They left the camp two hours after midnight and the last look that Warren gave toward the mountain showed him the slight figure of Winona with rifle in hand waving him a farewell salute.
To Maxwell the one hundred intrepid riders, with whom he was associated, represented a hopeless cause. How could they hope to conquer a force of three hundred desperadoes? But Warren knew not the valor of his companions nor the terror which the Brown men inspired.
The attacking point was an hour’s fast riding from camp. The dawn increased rapidly. Maybee fell back to Warren’s side with an air of repressed excitement, and his eyes blazed. He touched the young man’s arm as they rode and pointed to the left where they saw, in a cloud of dust, another party of horsemen coming toward them.
“Who are they, friends or enemies?”
“Reinforcements. They are the boys Reynolds has collected to help us. Nothing the matter with him or them, you bet. Reynolds ain’t been the same since Steward was killed. His heart’s broke ’long with it an’ he’s wil’ fer revenge. Every one of the boys with him is a fighter, too, from ’way back. I know ’em, Maxwell; an’ now, ——— me, if we don’t give them hell-hounds the biggest thrashing they’ve had since the campaign opened, you may call me a squaw. But who’s that riding beside Reynolds?” he broke off abruptly. “Dog my cats, may I be teetotally smashed ef it don’t look like Parson Steward!”
“No!” cried Warren in a fever of excitement at the words. “Impossible!”
“We’ll soon know,” replied Maybee.
On they sped over the space that separated the two parties. Then the order came to halt, and Parson Steward rode into the midst of the column while the men broke into wild cheering at sight of him. There was not much time to spend in greeting, but the vice-like grip of friendly hands spoke louder than words. Warren could not speak for a moment as before his mind the picture of the last night spent in Steward’s company passed vividly. The parson, too, was visibly affected.
“Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” he said solemnly.