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And so the watchers went on duty. The light in the ranch was extinguished, and all about the place was as quiet as the broad, rolling prairie itself. Farron remained wakeful a little while, then said he was sleepy and should go in and lie down without undressing. Pete, too, speedily grew drowsy and sat down on the porch, where Wells soon caught sight of his nodding head just as the moon came peeping up over the distant crest of the “Buffalo Hill.”

How long Farron slept he had no time to ask, for the next thing he knew was that a rude hand was shaking his shoulder, and Pete’s voice said,–

“Up with you, Farron! The signal’s fired at Phillips’s. Up quick!”

As Farron sprang to the floor, Pete struck a light, and the next minute the kerosene lamp, flickering and sputtering at first, was shining in the eastward window. Outside the door the ranchman found Wells tightening his saddle-girths, while his horse, snorting with excitement, pricked up his ears and gazed down the valley.

“Who fired?” asked Farron, barely awake.

“I don’t know; Ralph probably. Better get Jessie for me at once. The Indians are this side of the Platte sure, and they may be near at hand. I don’t like the way Spot’s behaving,–see how excited he is. I don’t like to leave you short-handed if there’s to be trouble. If there’s time I’ll come back from Phillips’s. Come, man! Wake Jessie.”

“All right. There’s plenty of time, though. They must be miles down the valley yet. If they’d come from the north, the telegraph would have given warning long ago. And Dick Warner–my brother-in-law, Jessie’s uncle–always promised he’d be down to tell me first thing, if they came any way that he could hear of it. You bet he’ll be with us before morning, unless they’re between him and us now.”

With that he turned into the house, and in a moment reappeared with the wondering, sleepy-eyed, half-wakened little maid in his strong arms. Wells was already in saddle, and Spot was snorting and prancing about in evident excitement.

“I’ll leave the ‘Henry’ with Pete. I can’t carry it and Jessie, too. Hand her up to me and snuggle her well in the blanket.”

Farron hugged his child tight in his arms one moment. She put her little arms around his neck and clung to him, looking piteously into his face, yet shedding no tears. Something told her there was danger; something whispered “Indians!” to the childish heart; but she stifled her words of fear and obeyed her father’s wish.

“You are going down to Phillips’s where Ralph is, Jessie, darling. Sergeant Wells is going to carry you. Be good and perfectly quiet. Don’t cry, don’t make a particle of noise, pet. Whatever you do, don’t make any noise. Promise papa.”

As bravely as she had done when she waited that day at the station at Cheyenne, the little woman choked back the rising sob. She nodded obedience, and then put up her bonny face for her father’s kiss. Who can tell of the dread, the emotion he felt as he clung to the trusting little one for that short moment?

“God guard you, my baby,” he muttered, as he carefully lifted her up to Wells, who circled her in his strong right arm, and seated her on the overcoat that was rolled at his pommel.

Farron carefully wrapped the blanket about her tiny feet and legs, and with a prayer on his lips and a clasp of the sergeant’s bridle hand he bade him go. Another moment, and Wells and little Jessie were loping away on Spot, and were rapidly disappearing from view along the dim, moonlit trail.

For a moment the three ranchmen stood watching them. Far to the northeast a faint light could be seen at Phillips’s, and the roofs and walls were dimly visible in the rays of the moon. The hoof-beats of old Spot soon died away in the distance, and all seemed as still as the grave. Anxious as he was, Farron took heart. They stood there silent a few moments after the horseman, with his precious charge, had faded from view, and then Farron spoke,–