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Farron’s lay to the southwest, and thither probably all the Indians were now riding. He could gallop off to the southeast, make a long detour, and so reach Lodge Pole unseen. If he could get there in two hours and a half, the cavalry could be up and away in fifteen minutes more, and in that case might reach the Chug at daybreak or soon afterwards.

One thing was certain, that to succeed he must go instantly, before the Indians could come down and put a watch around Phillips’s.

Of course it was a plan full of fearful risk. He took his life in his hands. Death by the cruelest of tortures awaited him if captured, and it was a prospect before which any boy and many a man might shrink in dismay.

But he had thought of little Jessie; the plan and the estimation of the difficulties and dangers attending its execution had flashed through his mind in less than five seconds, and his resolution was instantly made. He was a soldier’s son, was Ralph, and saying no word to any one he had run to the stable, saddled and bridled Buford, and with his revolver at his hip was ready for his ride.

“It’s no use of talking; I’m going,” was all he said. “I know how to dodge them just as well as any man here, and, as for father, he’d be ashamed of me if I didn’t go.”

Waiting for no reply,–before they could fully realize what he meant,–the boy had chirruped to his pawing horse and away they darted round the corner of the station, across the moonlit road, and then eastward down the valley.

“Phillips,” exclaimed the soldier, “I never should have let him go. I ought to have gone myself; but he’s away before a man can stop him.”

“You’re too heavy to ride that horse, and there’s none other here to match him. That boy’s got the sense of a plainsman any day, I tell you, and he’ll make it all right. The Indians are all up the valley and we’ll hear ’em presently at Farron’s. He’s keeping off so as to get round east of the bluffs, and then he’ll strike across country southward and not try for the road until he’s eight or ten miles away. Good for Ralph! It’s a big thing he’s doing, and his father will be proud of him for it.”

But the telegraph operator was heavy-hearted. The men were all anxious, and clustered again at the rear of the station. All this had taken place in the space of three minutes, and they were eagerly watching for the next demonstration from the marauders.

Of the fate of poor Warner there could be little doubt. It was evident that the Indians had overwhelmed and killed him. There was a short struggle and the rapidly concentrating fire of rifles and revolvers for a minute or two; then the yells had changed to triumphant whoops, and then came silence.

“They’ve got his scalp, poor fellow, and no man could lend a hand to help him. God grant they’re all safe inside up there at Farron’s,” said one of the party; it was the only comment made on the tragedy that had been enacted before them.

“Hullo! What’s that?”

“It’s the flash of rifles again. They’ve sighted Ralph!” cried the soldier.

“Not a bit of it. Ralph’s off here to the eastward. They’re firing and chasing up the valley. Perhaps Warner got away after all. Look at ’em! See! The flashes are getting farther south all the time! They’ve headed him off from Farron’s, whoever it is, and he’s making for the road. The cowardly hounds! There’s a hundred of ’em, I reckon, on one poor hunted white man, and here we are with our hands tied!”

For a few minutes more the sound of shots and yells and thundering hoofs came vividly through the still night air. All the time it was drifting away southward, and gradually approached the road. One of the ranchmen begged Phillips to let him have a horse and go out in the direction of the firing to reconnoitre and see what had happened, but it would have been madness to make the attempt, and the request was met with a prompt refusal.