ING PETER

It was a new country to me that we traversed, a rolling country, but not
thickly settled, although the road appeared to be a well-beaten track.
The gloom, coupled with the rapidity of our movements, prevented me from
seeing anything other than those dim objects close at hand, yet we were
evidently travelling almost straight east. I endeavored to enter into
conversation with the two fellows riding on either side of me, but
neither one so much as turned his head in response to my voice, and I
soon tired of the attempt. The night told me little of who they might be,
although they were both in the uniform of the Queen's Rangers, the one
called Peter on my right a round, squat figure, and bald-headed, his bare
scalp shining oddly when once he removed his cocked hat; the other was an
older man, with gray chin beard, and glittering display of teeth.

But I gave these small consideration, my thought centring rather on the
two riding in front, the Indian slouching carelessly in his saddle, his
real shape scarcely discernible, while the lieutenant sat stiff and
straight, with head erect, his slender figure plainly outlined against
the sky-line. He alone of the four spoke an occasional word, in the
contralto boyish voice, of which I made little, however, and the Indian
merely grunted an acknowledgment that he heard. The movements of my horse
caused the ropes to lacerate my wrists and ankles, the pain increasing so
that once or twice I cried out. The fellows guarding me did not even turn
their heads, but the lieutenant drew up his horse so as to block us.

"What is the trouble? Are you hurt?"

"These ropes are tearing into the flesh," I groaned. "I'd be just as safe
if they were loosened a bit."

I saw him lean forward, shading his face with one hand, as he stared
toward me through the darkness. I thought he drew a quick breath as from
surprise, and there was a moment's hesitancy.

"Let out the ropes a trifle, Peter," came the final order.

The little bald-headed man went at it without a word, the lieutenant
reining back his horse slightly, and drawing his hat lower over his eyes.
In the silence one of the horses neighed, and the boy seemed to
straighten in his saddle, glancing suspiciously about.

"Ride ahead slowly, Tonepah," he ordered. "I'll catch up with you." He
turned back toward me. "Who are you, anyway?"

Surprised at the unexpected question, my first thought was to conceal my
identity. These were Kin