As the warriors passed abreast of him, now at a greater distance, four of their horses ran riderless. Again they had swerved, curving off into a circle and riding round and round as before. He watched them and saw their circle suddenly break. Their yells of defiance were turned into shouts of alarm, and as they scattered there came to him the shrill notes of a bugle.
"Thank Heaven!" he exclaimed as half-a-dozen of his comrades of the Mounted Police galloped into sight over the rising ground. "The boys have followed on our trail! We shall be all right now."
He turned to Maple Leaf. She was on her knees, supported by her outstretched hands, staring at him while the crimson trickle from her face and hair and chin dripped upon the sand.
"I thought they'd got you," she said feebly. "I'd have done it sure if you hadn't stopped me."
He looked at the ugly score that the bullet had made across her temple.
"It's just a flesh wound," he told her. "We can soon patch it up when we get back into camp."
"It will leave a mark," she said, overcoming her faintness.
"Why, cert'nly," he smiled, returning the pistol to its holster. "But your hair will 'most hide it—if you want it to be hidden."
"But I don't," she faltered weakly, closing her eyes. "I shall be proud of it—as long as I live."