Tim Brophy had seen the bucks listening to the impassioned harangue of
their leader, and the relief was not great when they rode over another
swell in the plain, which shut them out from the sight of any of the
serpent-eyed Sioux concealed there; for there could be no certainty that
the fugitives had not been observed by them. It was not the custom of
their people to attack openly; more likely they would set some ambush
into which the whites might ride with no thought of danger.

But in one sense the Rubicon was crossed. They had turned their backs on
the ranch, and it was to be dismissed from their thoughts until they
should reach some place of safety.

There was little said by any member of the party, for the occasion was
not one to induce conversation. Even little Dot was oppressed by the
general gloom, and nestled close to her mother, whose arm lovingly
encircled and held her close to her breast, which would gladly receive
any blow intended for that precious one.

Tim Brophy remained a brief distance at the rear, with the pack animal,
on the alert for the first sign of danger, while Mr. Starr gave his
attention to the front, selecting the course, and doing all in his power
to avoid leading his companions into danger.

When, however, a half mile had been passed, during which several ridges
were crossed, a feeling of hope arose that after all they might elude
their vengeful enemies. With the coming of night, it would be impossible
for the Sioux to trail them. They must wait until the following morning,
and before that time the fugitives ought to be so near Fort Meade that
the pursuit would be in vain.

It was a striking proof of parental affection that now, when the cloud
was partly lifted from the father and mother, their anxiety should be
transferred to the absent son on his way to join them. He was in the
minds of both, and despite his exceptional skill in woodcraft, the
conviction grew upon the parents that he was in greater peril than they.
Finally, the mother uttered the thoughts in her mind.

"I agree with you, Molly," the husband replied. "Bruno will do his best,
but I believe the chances are a hundred to one that he will fail, and
Warren will ride straight to his death."

"Can't we do something, George?"

The husband turned his head, and beckoned to his employe to ride up
between them.

"Tim, you know the regular trail to the fort as well as the way to your
own bedroom. I want you to set out to mee