It was uncertain now how matters would turn. Watching them, the occupants of the corral could see that an animated conference was being held. Would there be another battle? Even if not, a large war-party like this, determined to annoy them, could soon reduce their position to one of imminent peril. By closely investing the camp they could render it nearly an impossibility for the stock to obtain proper grazing--let alone bringing all progress forward to an utter standstill. They could even make it a matter of extreme difficulty to replenish the water supply--and then, too, there would be the constant strain and fatigue of ever being on the watch against surprise--whether by day or night. So that when their conference ended, the whole party mounted their ponies and retreated in the same way as they had come, the feeling evoked in the minds of the spectators was one of entire and undiluted relief. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. A PERIL OF THE PLAINS. "A `tenderfoot,' and--`turned round'!" [Lost.] And the speaker hands his field-glass to his companion. The latter brings it to bear and gazes with interest upon the object under observation. The said object is a horseman, now between three and four miles distant. The observers from their point of vantage and concealment, a little belt of scrub and timber cresting a knoll, have been watching this object ever since it appeared on the skyline. Thanks to the powerful glass they can make out every movement of the solitary horseman, and very irresolute his movements are. Now he reins in, and looks anxiously around; now he spurs his nag to the brow of some slight eminence, only to encounter disappointment, for the broad rolling plains lie around in unbroken monotony, affording no sort of landmark for the guidance of this inexperienced traveller. There is weariness and disappointment in his every movement. In his countenance there is more--an expression of strong apprehension, not to say alarm. This, too, thanks to the developments of science, is clear to the observers. "A `tenderfoot,' and turned round," repeats Vipan. "Now, what the deuce can he be doing here, alone, and away from his outfit? Why--what's the matter, Miss Santorex?" "Look--look!" is the hurried reply. "There--to the right--down in the hollow! What--who are they?" In her eagerness she has seized his arm, and her face has gone pale as death. But Vipan has seen at the same time what she herself has. His reply is grave and in one word.