So the gallant commander’s appeal had been made--and had it been made in vain? So it would seem, for not a man spoke for several moments. They shifted their guns, or changed weight from one foot to the other, or adjusted a bandage which already marked the redskin’s devilish work. They were brave men; but death seemed too sure a result of the attempt called for; it meant--to their minds--but another life flung away! “Was it not better that all should die here together, fighting desperately till the last man fell?” That was the question these old scarred veterans asked in their own minds. The venture would be utterly and completely hopeless. “_Look there!_” The trumpet-call was uttered by an officer on one of the towers of the stockade. His arm pointed westward, toward a ridge of rock which--barren and forbidding--sloped down into the valley facing the main gateway of Fort Advance. At the officer’s cry a score of men leaped to positions from which could be seen the object that occasioned it. Even Major Baldwin, knowing that the cry had been uttered because of some momentous happening, hurriedly mounted to the platform above the gate. He feared that already his demand for another volunteer was too late. He believed the redskins were massing for another charge. All eyes were strained in the direction the officer on the watch-tower pointed. A gasp of amazement was chorused by those who saw and understood the meaning of the cry. A horseman was seen riding like the wind toward the fort--and he was a white man! The Indians who had already beheld this rash adventurer were dumb with amazement. They were as much surprised by his appearance as were the inmates of the fort. The unknown rider was leading a packhorse. The horse he bestrode was a magnificent animal, and the packhorse flying along by its side was a racer as well, for both came on, down the long tongue of barren rock, at a spanking pace. From whence had the man come? Who was he? How had he gotten almost through the Indian lines undiscovered? He certainly had all but run the gantlet of the red warriors, for no shot, or no arrow, had been fired at him until he was discovered by the officer on the watch-tower of the fort. Then it was that he spurred forward like the wind, and floating to the ears of the whites who watched him so fearfully came the long, tremolo yell of the Sioux warriors as they started in pursuit of the daredevil rider. He was heading directly for the large gates of the fort. That he had chosen well his place to break through the Indian death-circle was evident, for there were few braves near him as he fled along the sloping ridge into the valley. His rifle he turned to right, or to left, firing with the same ease from either shoulder, while his mount, and the packhorse tied to its bridle, guided their own feet over the rocky way. When he pulled trigger the bullet did not miss its mark. The rifle rang out a death-knell, or sent a wounded brave out of action.