speak, or move, he burst into words.

"You! Knox! My God, man, whoever you are, don't refuse me shelter!"

"Shelter? from what?" my hand closing on a pistol butt.

"Indians! Be merciful, for God's sake. They are there in the valley,
they are after me. I just escaped them--they were going to burn me at
the stake!"

I glanced aside at Tim; his rifle was flung forward. Then I looked
quickly back at the man, who had already dropped from his horse, and
seemed scarcely able to stand. Was this true, had he ridden here
unknowing whom he would meet, with no other thought but to save his
life? Heaven knows he looked the part--his swarthy face dirtied, with
a stain of blood on one cheek, his shirt ripped into rags, bare-headed,
and with a look of terror in his eyes not to be mistaken. Villain and
savage as I knew him to be, I still felt a strange wave of pity sweep
me--pity and tenderness, mingled with hatred and distrust.

"Kirby," I said, and strode in between him and Tim's levelled weapon.
"There is no friendship between us--now, or at any time. I believe you
to be a miserable, snarling dog; but I would save even a cur from
Indian torture. Did you know we were here?"

"No, so help me God. I saw the cabin, and hoped to find help."

"The savages are following you?"

"Yes--yes; see! Look down there--there are half a hundred of the
devils, and--and Black Hawk."

"By the Holy Smoke, Cap, he's right--there they are!" sung out Kennedy,
pointing excitedly. "The cuss ain't a lyin'. What'll we do?"

I saw them also by this time, my mind in a whirl of indecision. What
should we do? What ought we to do? We should have to fight to the
death--there was no doubt of that. An attempt to get away was
manifestly impossible. But what about this renegade? this infernal
scoundrel? this hell-hound who had been trailing us to kill and
destroy? Should we turn him back now to his deserved fate? or should
we offer him the same chance for life we had? He might fight; he might
add one rifle to our defense; he might help us to hold out until
rescuers came. And then--then--after that--we could settle our score.
Tim's voice broke the silence.

"I reckon we ain't got much time," he said grimly. "It's one thing,
'er the other. I'm fer givin' the damn begger a chanst. I can't turn
no white man over ter Injuns--not me. Kirby's got a gun, an' I reckon
we're goin' fer ter need 'em all afore this blame fracas is over with."