miled wistfully up into the strong face bending over
her.

"I was thinking, dearest, if death faced us, little Marjorie and me, in
any form, we should not like it at the hands of an Indian. We should both
prefer it from some one we know and--love."

Another silence followed, and the sound of machinery was nearer and
louder. The man stooped down and kissed the upturned face, and looked long
into the beautiful gray depths he loved so well.

"It shall be as you wish, Al--as a last resource. I will go and kiss
Marjorie. It is time we were doing."

He had spoken so quietly, so calmly. But in his soldier's heart he knew
that his promise would be carried out to the letter--as a last resource.
He left the woman, the old campaigner, examining the revolvers which
looked like cannons in her small white hands.

* * * * *

One brief hour has passed. The peace of that lonely little trail-side camp
has gone. War, a thousand times more fierce than the war of civilized
nations, is raging round it in the light of the summer moon. The dead
bodies of three white men are lying within a few yards of the tent which
belongs to the ill-fated colonel and his wife. A horde of shouting,
shrieking savages encircle that little white canopy and its two remaining
defenders. Every bush is alive with hideous painted faces waiting for the
last order to rush the camp. Their task has been less easy than they
supposed. For the defenders were all "old hands." And every shot from the
repeating rifles has told. But now it is different. There are only two
defenders left. A man of invincible courage--and a woman; and behind them,
a little, awe-struck child in the doorway of the tent.

The echoing war-whoop sounds the final advance, and the revolvers of those
two desperate defenders crack and crack again. The woman's ammunition is
done. The man's is nearly so. He turns, and she turns to meet him. There
is one swift embrace.

"Now!" she says in a low, soft voice.

There is an ominous crack of a revolver, but it is not fired in the
direction of the Indians whom the man sees are within a few yards of him.
He sees the woman fall, and turns swiftly to the tent door. The child
instinctively turns and runs inside. The man's gun is raised with
inexorable purpose. His shot rings out. The child screams; and the man
crashes to the earth with his head cleft by a hatchet from behind.

CHAPTER III

AN ALARM IN BEACO