While Dell, busy with her thoughts, was sweeping the shadowy country on every side and following the sergeant mechanically, she was abruptly startled by the husky note of a rifle. A bloodthirsty yell followed the report; such a yell as only an Apache can give. Following the yell came the snort of a horse, and a thud of jumping hoofs. Without a moment’s hesitation the daring girl spurred forward, jerking a revolver from her belt as she rode. Patterson was in trouble! If so, he might need her. That was her one thought, and she knew not the meaning of the word fear. A dozen leaps of the white cayuse carried the girl to the scene of the shooting. Again an unseen rifle cracked, and a bullet whistled past the girl’s head. But she gave attention to nothing and to no one save Patterson. And if ever a man stood in need of aid, it was the brave sergeant at that moment. Patterson had dropped from his saddle and was lying helpless on his side. His horse, a few yards away, was standing stock-still, fore hoofs planted wide apart, head thrown back, and nostrils sniffing the night air. The sergeant, when attacked, had been traversing a “hogback.” The hogback was bare, and rose out of a thick tangle of brush. In traversing the rise, the messenger had been prominently in sight of savage foes lurking in the brush below. Two of these were now bounding up the side of the hogback. Dell saw the two Apaches almost as soon as she had seen the sergeant. Both Indians carried rifles, but they must have been muzzle-loaders. Had they been repeating rifles, the girl would probably have paid with her life for her reckless charge along the hogback. Having no time to halt and reload, the Apaches were springing up the rocky slope, one with a knife in his free hand and the other with a hatchet. Tumbling out of her saddle, Dell rushed to Patterson’s side, jerking out her revolvers as she ran. The Indians were within thirty paces of her when she opened fire. One fell, throwing up his arms and tipping backward down the slope; the other--the one with the knife--flung himself behind a boulder. Dell understood very well what this meant. Screened by the boulder, the Apache intended to reload his rifle and then take his time picking her off with a bullet. Without a moment’s hesitation the girl charged the boulder, so that the Indian had no time to use powder-horn or bullet-pouch. Forced from cover, he bounded back toward the bushes at the base of the hogback, zigzagging and ducking to avoid the lead sent after him. Whether she hit the redskin or not Dell could not tell, but she realized that it would be unwise to pursue him any farther. Returning hastily to the sergeant, she knelt at his side. “How badly are you hurt, sergeant?” she asked. “Too badly to go on with the despatches,” he answered, lifting himself on one elbow and jerking a packet from the breast of his blouse. “Ye’re a brave ’un, Miss Dauntless. Here, take the despatches an’ get ’em through.”