rewell! Get a move
on, Little Thunder! Cameron will bring up the rear."

He added some further words in the Indian tongue, his voice taking a
stern tone. Little Thunder grunted a surly and unwilling acquiescence,
and, waving his hand to Cameron, the trader wheeled his horse up the
trail.

In spite of himself Cameron could not forbear a feeling of pity and
admiration as he watched the lithe, upright figure swaying up the
trail, his every movement in unison with that of the beautiful demon
he bestrode. But with all his pity and admiration he was none the less
resolved that he would do what in him lay to bring these two to justice.

"This ugly devil at least shall swing!" he said to himself as he turned
his eyes upon Little Thunder getting his pack ponies out upon the trail.
This accomplished, the Indian, pointing onward, said gruffly,

"You go in front--me back."

"Not much!" cried Cameron. "You heard the orders from your chief. You go
in front. I bring up the rear. I do not know the trail."

"Huh! Trail good," grunted Little Thunder, the red-rimmed eyes gleaming
malevolently. "You go front--me back." He waved his hand impatiently
toward the trail. Following the direction of his hand, Cameron's eyes
fell upon the stock of his own rifle protruding from a pack upon one of
the ponies. For a moment the protruding stock held his eyes fascinated.

"Huh!" said the Indian, noting Cameron's glance, and slipping off his
pony. In an instant both men were racing for the pack and approaching
each other at a sharp angle. Arrived at striking distance, the Indian
leaped at Cameron, with his knife, as was his wont, ready to strike.

The appearance of the Indian springing at him seemed to set some of the
grey matter in Cameron's brain moving along old tracks. Like a flash he
dropped to his knees in an old football tackle, caught the Indian by
the legs and tossed him high over his shoulders, then, springing to
his feet, he jerked the rifle free from the pack and stood waiting for
Little Thunder's attack.

But the Indian lay without sound or motion. Cameron used his opportunity
to look for his cartridge belt, which, after a few minutes' anxious
search, he discovered in the pack. He buckled the belt about him, made
sure his Winchester held a shell, and stood waiting.

That he should be waiting thus with the deliberate purpose of shooting
down a fellow human being filled him with a sense of unreality. But
the events of the last fort