The place selected for leaving the horses and the prisoner was a dark hollow, where the trail made a quick bend round rocks, and where bushes, growing in each side of the trail, made good cover.
Those bushes shut him from sight of the prisoner and the Indian girl almost as soon as he started on his way.
Lena Forest was about to begin her petitions again, and was trying to summon enough courage to try to make an escape if there was another refusal, when the bushes near by rustled, and a young man stood forth, leveling a revolver at Wind Flower.
“Don’t move!” he commanded.
The face of the girl prisoner became white as chalk when she saw him, and she seemed about to slide in a faint from her horse; but she maintained her balance, and whispered:
“Bruce! Oh, save me, dear!”
The Indian girl became rigid as stone from fear; her black eyes opening in fright when she looked into the muzzle of that revolver. Her lips trembled and opened, as if she meant to call for help.
“Don’t move!” came the command again.
The young white man, dressed in miner’s clothing, stepped out quickly.
“Down from the horse!” he said, his voice low but commanding.