“Release that girl instantly!” cried the bandit chief, his face strangely pale and stern.
“You bet I won’t do it!” replied the man.
A quick shot followed, a cry of agony, and a stream of hot blood burst from a bullet wound in the head of the renegade, as he fell dead, still clutching in his strong arms the fainting form of Rose Carter.
“Take that girl from that hound’s grasp; and see to it, Red Roark, that no harm comes to her, for if there does, there shall be weeping and wailing in this band.”
Thus saying, the robber chief set to work to examine the contents of the cabin, for to gain booty had this raid been made by the Branded Brotherhood upon the quiet home of poor Alfred Carter.
It did not take long for those experienced hands to go through the cabin, and then the order was given to mount. The band departed. By his side, mounted upon her own horse, which the chief had ordered saddled for her, was the weeping Rose, who had returned to consciousness to find her mother and brother slain, and herself and her father in the power of the bandit chief.
Strangely soft and kind was the chief’s manner toward the sorrowing girl, but he was, nevertheless, so firm in his purpose that she had to accompany him to his stronghold.
What her fate would be she dared not think, as she rode quietly along, with the bitter, scalding tears coursing down her cheeks, and a terrible dread at her heart.
Swiftly on rode the band of the Branded Brotherhood, taking a course down the river, until the quick ear of the chief detected distant firing, and he suddenly drew rein.
“What can that mean?” he asked, striving to pierce the darkness of the prairie in the direction of the sound.