atter was so
buttoned up in a buffalo coat as to make it impossible for him to reach
a weapon, and Hamlin permitted his eyes to waver slightly, as he
watched the Indians. What occurred the next instant came so suddenly
as scarcely to leave an impression. It was swift, instinctive action,
primitive impulse. An Indian hand fell beneath its blanket covering;
there was a flash of flame across a pony's saddle; Hughes sprang
backward, and went reeling into the snow. Hamlin fired, as the savage
dodged between the horse's legs, sending him sprawling, and, ignoring
the other Indian, swung about to cover Dupont. Swift as he moved, he
was too late. With one desperate spring backward the white man was
behind the woman's pony, sheltered by her shapeless figure, gripping
the animal's bit. The second Indian dropped to his knees and opened
fire. With a sudden lurch forward the Sergeant plunged headlong in the
snow.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE GIRL AND THE MAN

As he went down, uninjured, but realizing now that this was to be a
battle to the death, Hamlin flung open his coat, and gripped his
revolver. Lying there on his face he fired twice, deliberately,
choosing the exposed Indian as a target. The latter, striving to mount
his frightened pony, fell forward, grasping the mane desperately, a
stream of blood dyeing his blanket as the animal dashed across the
valley. Dupont had whirled the girl's horse to the left, and, with her
body as a shield, was attempting to escape. Already he was too far
away to make a revolver shot safe. Hamlin arose to his knees, and
picked up the dropped rifle. His lips were pressed tight; his eyes
full of grim determination. Why didn't Dupont fire? Could it be he
was unarmed? Or was he hoping by delay to gain a closer shot?
Keen-eyed, resolute, the Sergeant determined to take no chances. The
rifle came to a level,--a spurt of flame, a sharp report, and the pony
staggered to its knees, and sank, bearing its helpless burden with it.
Dupont let go his grip on the rein, and stood upright, clearly outlined
against the white hillside, staring back toward the kneeling Sergeant,
the faint smoke cloud whirling between.

"All right--damn you!--you've got me!" he said sullenly.

Hamlin never moved, except to snap out the emptied cartridge.

"Unbutton that coat," he commanded tersely. "Now turn around. No
shooting iron, hey! That's rather careless of a gun-man."

He dropped his rifle, and strode f