is fact. The voices of
men, echoing hoarsely through the gorge, confirmed it! Beyond doubt,
they were our pursuers, guided by the dog--who little comprehended the
danger he was thus conducting towards the object of his instinctive
affections!

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE.

AN UNEXPECTED DEFECTION.

Almost as soon as we heard the voices, we saw those who were giving
utterance to them. A horseman appeared issuing from the jaws of the
chasm--another, and another--until eight had filed into the open ground!
They were all armed men--armed with guns, pistols, and knives. He in
the lead was at once identified. The colossal stature, the green
blanket-coat, red shirt, and kerchief turban, proclaimed that the
foremost of our pursuers was Holt himself. Immediately behind him rode
Stebbins; while those following in file were the executive myrmidons of
the Mormon faith--the _Destroying Angels_!

On entering the open ground, Holt alone kept on without slackening his
speed. Stebbins followed, but more cautiously and at a distance of
several lengths of his horse. The Danites at sight of our animals, and
ourselves too--for they could not fail to see our faces over the rocks--
drew up; not suddenly, but one after the other--as if irresolute whether
to advance, or remain where they were. Even Stebbins, though moving on
after the squatter, did so with evident reluctance. He saw the barrels
of our rifles gleaming above the boulders; and, when within about fifty
paces of our position, he too reined in--keeping the body of Holt
between himself and our guns. The squatter continued to advance,
without the slightest show of fear. So near had he got to us, that we
could note the expression upon his features, though it was difficult to
understand it. It was one that bespoke reckless determination--no doubt
a determination to recover his child from the savages who had stolen
her; for as yet he had no reason to think otherwise than that we were
Indians. Of course, none of us thought of firing upon Holt; but, had
Stebbins at the moment advanced only a step nearer, there was more than
one rifle ready to give out its deadly detonation.

Holt approached rapidly, his horse going a trot. He held his long gun
obliquely in front of him, and grasped in both hands--as if ready to
fire on the instant. All at once, he checked his horse, dropped the gun
on the pommel of his saddle, and sat gazing towards us with a look of
bewildered surpri