“Down from the horse!” he said, his voice low but commanding. The words were addressed to the Indian girl; and, backed by the revolver, it seemed that she would not dare to disobey them. Yet as she slid to the ground, she screamed aloud for help, and threw her arms round the neck of the young white man, surprising and handicapping him. That scream, and the fact that her lover, Bruce Clayton, was there to help her, and needed help now himself, aroused the dormant energy of Lena Forest. She caught the rein of her horse and jerked the animal toward the combatants--for at the moment the white man and the Indian girl were struggling in lively conflict--and then she tried to get down and go to the youth’s assistance. The horse gave a jump, being frightened, and she fell to the ground. This scared the other horse. He, too, gave a rearing plunge, and went clattering down the trail, and out of sight beyond the fringing bushes. “Let him go!” Lena Forest panted, as she dashed at the Indian girl. But Clayton had caught hold of the Indian girl, and now he threw her from him. She staggered, and then fell to the ground. Clayton caught the half-fainting white girl in his arms, and in another moment he was running with her along the trail, following the course taken by the scared horses. On the hillside sounded a whoop, showing that Lightfoot had heard the outcry, suspected something of the character of what was happening, and was bounding down the hill. Clayton had a horse below, at the side of the trail, concealed in a small grove; and for that grove he now made lively tracks. He reached the horse, and threw his sweetheart into the saddle; then he sprang up himself, mounting with surprising speed and agility. Catching her close in his arms again, he drove the horse into the trail, and sped on. Behind him he heard another whoop--an Indian war whoop now, telling him that the enraged redskin was pursuing, or, at least, that he would pursue instantly. Clayton lashed the horse; and, in spite of its double burden, it fairly flew along the winding trail. “We’re all right!” he said to the girl he clasped in his arms. “I don’t understand it, but you’re safe now, Lena; and I think God must have sent me along the trail at just that time, that I might save you from that wretch.” She shuddered, put her arms round his shoulders, and nestled closer to him. It seemed a delightful dream--this sudden transition from her position as the prisoner of a painted Indian into the arms of the youth she loved, and whom she had promised to marry. “You’re all right now?” he demanded. “Yes,” she whispered; “only--only terribly frightened!” “Still frightened? You’re safe now as can be.” “I mean that I--I was frightened and I’m so weak that I don’t think I could walk; but this is heaven, after that--after I thought I was to be taken to the Blackfoot village, and there forced to become the squaw of an Indian.” “That young Indian chief?” “No; Crazy Snake!”