where they fell. "Red" Watt, of
the "X L," would no more ride the range across the sun-kissed prairie,
while the stern old sergeant, still grim of jaw but growing dim of eye,
bore his right arm in a rudely improvised sling made from a
cartridge-belt, and crept about sorely racked with pain, dragging a
shattered limb behind him. Then the taciturn Gillis gave sudden
utterance to a sobbing cry, and a burst of red spurted across his white
beard as he reeled backward, knocking the girl prostrate when he fell.
Eight remained, one helpless, one a mere lass of fifteen. It was the
morning of the third day.

The beginning of the affair had burst upon them so suddenly that no two
in that stricken company would have told the same tale. None among
them had anticipated trouble; there were no rumors of Indian war along
the border, while every recognized hostile within the territory had
been duly reported as north of the Bear Water; not the vaguest
complaint had drifted into military headquarters for a month or more.
In all the fancied security of unquestioned peace these chance
travellers had slowly toiled along the steep trail leading toward the
foothills, beneath the hot rays of the afternoon sun, their thoughts
afar, their steps lagging and careless. Gillis and the girl, as well
as the two cattle-herders, were on horseback; the remainder soberly
trudged forward on foot, with guns slung to their shoulders. Wyman was
somewhat in advance, walking beside the stranger, the latter a man of
uncertain age, smoothly shaven, quietly dressed in garments bespeaking
an Eastern tailor, a bit grizzled of hair along the temples, and
possessing a pair of cool gray eyes. He had introduced himself by the
name of Hampton, but had volunteered no further information, nor was it
customary in that country to question impertinently. The others of the
little party straggled along as best suited themselves, all semblance
to the ordinary discipline of the service having been abandoned.

Hampton, through the medium of easy conversation, early discovered in
the sergeant an intelligent mind, possessing some knowledge of
literature. They had been discussing books with rare enthusiasm, and
the former had drawn from the concealment of an inner pocket a
diminutive copy of "The Merchant of Venice," from which he was reading
aloud a disputed passage, when the faint trail they followed suddenly
dipped into the yawning mouth of a black canyon. It was a narrow