While Dell, busy with her thoughts, was sweeping the shadowy country on every side and following the sergeant mechanically, she was abruptly startled by the husky note of a rifle. A bloodthirsty yell followed the report; such a yell as only an Apache can give. Following the yell came the snort of a horse, and a thud of jumping hoofs.
Without a moment’s hesitation the daring girl spurred forward, jerking a revolver from her belt as she rode.
Patterson was in trouble! If so, he might need her.
That was her one thought, and she knew not the meaning of the word fear.
A dozen leaps of the white cayuse carried the girl to the scene of the shooting.
Again an unseen rifle cracked, and a bullet whistled past the girl’s head. But she gave attention to nothing and to no one save Patterson.
And if ever a man stood in need of aid, it was the brave sergeant at that moment.
Patterson had dropped from his saddle and was lying helpless on his side. His horse, a few yards away, was standing stock-still, fore hoofs planted wide apart, head thrown back, and nostrils sniffing the night air.
The sergeant, when attacked, had been traversing a “hogback.” The hogback was bare, and rose out of a thick tangle of brush. In traversing the rise, the messenger had been prominently in sight of savage foes lurking in the brush below. Two of these were now bounding up the side of the hogback.