The appeal roused his master. He glanced from the pony and the prostrate rider to the opposite bluffs, and at every hiding place of an enemy in his field of vision. Since the tragedy had taken place within the last few minutes, the criminal could not be far off. There was the vast, precipitous gorge along the side of which wound the broad path that had been traversed by hundreds of men and animals, and along which the Express Riders had galloped at headlong speed times without number. There were scores of places among the towering rocks and piles of stone that would hide a host of miscreants from sight. The fatal arrow might have been launched from any one of them, and the youth could not guess which. At any rate no dusky head showed itself. The weapon that had been used gave out no sound and whether there was one assassin or a dozen must remain unknown to Alden. The feeling which succeeded the first horrifying shock was one of profound pity for the victim. Young, vigorous, full of bounding life and hope, his cheering words lingered yet in the ears of the couple, and here he lay on the ground his life driven out by the arrow launched by a demon in wantonness, for Dick Lightfoot had never harmed a hair in the head of one of his kind. Jethro was almost speechless, for he expected other deadly missiles to hurtle through the air at him and his companion. The chances as the negro viewed them were a hundred to one that the two would never leave the spot alive; at any rate they would not do so if they tarried another minute. But he dared not go of his own accord and knew better than to protest to Alden. Some idea of what had taken place must have passed through the intelligent brain of the Express Rider’s pony. He had stopped suddenly when his master fell from the saddle, and one could almost fancy his reproving grief when he looked around in quest of the cruel slayer. Seeing no one, he walked slowly back to the senseless form, and lowering his nose began snuffing at it, as if he did not quite understand it all. Without a word, Alden Payne slipped off his horse and stooped over the body. “Dick” did not notice him, but kept up his snuffing as if begging an answer. Alden reached down and grasping the shoulder, carefully turned over the still warm body. An Indian arrow driven with infernal force and accuracy, had done its work. The point had passed clean through, piercing the heart in its passage. Dick Lightfoot had died instantly. “Poor fellow!” murmured Alden; “a lightning stroke could not have brought you down more suddenly. In the few minutes we were together I learned to like you, and this is the end.”