upon his feet. Then, without waiting word of remonstrance from the
astonished man, Sime hisses into his ear:--

"Kum along, Joe Harkness! Keep close arter us, an' don't ask any
questyuns. Thar, Jupe; you take charge o' him!"

At this, he gives Harkness a shove which sends him staggering into the
arms of the mulatto.

The latter, drawing a long stiletto-like knife, brandishes it before the
ex-jailer's eyes, as he does so, saying:

"Mass Harkness; keep on afore me; I foller. If you try leave the track
look-out. This blade sure go 'tween your back ribs."

The shining steel, with the sheen of Jupiter's teeth set in stern
determination, is enough to hold Harkness honest, whatever his intent.
He makes no resistance, but, trembling, turns along the path.

Once out of the glade, they fall into single file, the narrow trace
making this necessary; Woodley in the lead; Clancy second, holding his
hound in leash; Heywood third; Harkness fourth; Jupiter with bared
knife-blade bringing up the rear.

Never marched troop having behind it a more inexorable file-closer, or
one more determined on doing his duty.

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

ACROSS THE FORD.

No need to tell who are the strange equestrians seen coming across the
river; nor to say, that those on the croup are not Indian women, but
white ones--captives. The reader already knows they are Helen and
Jessie Armstrong.

Had Charles Clancy or Sime Woodley but suspected this at the time, they
would not have waited for Heywood, or stood dallying about the duplicity
of Harkness. Instead, they would have rushed right on to the river,
caring little what chances might be against them. Having no suspicion
of its being ought save two travelling redskins, accompanied by their
squaws, they acted otherwise.

The captives themselves know they are not in charge of Indians. After
hearing that horrid laughter they are no longer in doubt. It came from
the throats of white men: for only such could have understood the
speeches that called it forth.

This discovery affords them no gratification, but the opposite. Instead
of feeling safer in the custody of civilised men, the thought of it but
intensifies their fears. From the red savage, _pur sang_, they might
look for some compassion; from the white one they need not expect a
spark of it.

And neither does; both have alike lost heart and sunk into deepest
dejection. Never crossed Acheron two spirits more despairing--les