We stole forward slowly. The fire leaped and flared beneath the widespread branches of a tree. Around it lay a half dozen or so recumbent shapes wrapped in blankets. How many more might be lying beyond the light circle we could not tell. Beyond them we saw dimly the forms of dozing horses. Obeying a signal from the old trapper, we circled the camp until we were on the same side as the animals. They raised their heads and blew softly at us; but we lay still, and shortly they quieted down. "Now," breathed Bagsby, "when I give the word, fire. And each man grab a horse by the picket rope, stampede the rest, and hustle back to Vasquez. Ready!" We raised our pieces, but before the command to fire was given, one of the sleepers threw aside his blanket, stretched himself and arose. It was a white man! I confess that for a moment I turned physically sick. "Hello!" called Bagsby, quite unmoved. The white man seized his rifle, and the recumbent forms leaped to life. "Who are you?" he demanded sharply. "Speak quick!" "Keep yore ha'r on!" drawled the trapper, advancing into the light. "We're perfectly respectable miners, out looking for a lost man; and we saw yore fire." The rest of us uttered a yell of joy and relief. One of the men who had been sleeping around the fire was McNally himself. We drew together, explaining, congratulating. The strangers, six in number, turned out to be travellers from the eastern side of the ranges. They listened with interest and attention to our account of the Indian attack. McNally explained that he had been uncertain of his route in the dark; so that when he had caught sight of the fire he had made his way to it. We were still engaged in this mutual explanation when we were struck dumb by a long-drawn-out yell from the direction of our own horses. "It is Vasquez," explained Barry. "He wants to let us know where he is," and he answered the yell. But at that moment one of our own horses dashed up to the bunch of picketed animals and wheeled, trembling. Its rope bridle dangled broken from its head. Sam Bagsby darted forward to seize the hanging cord. "It's cut!" he cried. "Quick! Out across the valley, boys!" We followed him into the moonlight, grasping our rifles. A moment later a compact band swept toward us at full speed, our horses in the lead, their rope halters dangling, a dozen Indians on horseback following close at their heels and urging them on. "Shoot, boys!" yelled Bagsby, discharging his own piece. Our rifles cracked. It was impossible to take aim; and I am sure we hit nothing. But the horses swerved aside from the long fiery flashes, and so ran into the picketed lot and stopped. The Indians flew on through our scattered line without stopping, pursued by a sputter of shots from our Colt's revolvers. "A while ago I was sorry we had to stop above camp," said Bagsby with satisfaction; "but it was a lucky thing for us. They had to come by us to git out."