oment hers was the selfishness of a maiden's first great
love. Even in her anxiety her thoughts were not unhappy ones.

At last she moved away, and with the action came a desire to do. Unknown
to her the spirit of her dead father and mother roused within her. She was
a woman, gentle, loving, but strong with an invincible courage which had
been handed down to her from those two brave souls of whom she had no
recollection. Time would prove if the tragedy of the parents should fall
upon the child.

Quietly she stole up-stairs to her bedroom. Her cousin was still sleeping.
She opened a chest of drawers and drew out an old leather belt filled with
ammunition, and bearing two holsters containing a pair of revolvers. These
had been a present from Seth in the old days. She loaded both weapons, and
then secured them about her waist. Then she closed the drawer, and crept
noiselessly down-stairs again.

She made her way out into the moonlight. Passing out of the stockade she
located the exact position of the beacon-fires. The forethought in their
arrangement pleased her. She understood that the wood-fire was for night,
and the grass and dung for day. The smoke of the latter would be easily
detected in the brightest sunlight. She came back and barred the gates,
and sat out on the verandah with a small metal clock beside her. Thus her
vigil began.

The time crept by. Twelve, one, two o'clock. Seth had not returned. She
gave him the exact ten minutes' grace. Then, her face pale and a little
drawn by the unaccustomed strain, she went out and lit the beacons. She
obeyed implicitly. There was no haste, no fear. Her heart was thumping
hard in her bosom as she came and went, but it was not with fear.

Finally she roused Rube and Ma. Returning to the verandah she was in time
to answer a sharp summons at the gates. To her dismay she discovered that
Seth had not returned. The Agent and Mr. Hargreaves had brought their
womenfolk. The minister greeted the girl with a quiet announcement which
lost nothing of its significance by the easy manner in which it was made.

"They're out, Rosie," he said. And a moment later the gates were closed
behind the party.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE SUN-DANCE

The pale moon shone down upon a strange scene.

Four great fires marked the limits of a wide clearing. And these were set
with consummate accuracy at the cardinal points. Superstition demanded
this setting.

The ruddy glow threw into uncertain