Two riders came into the light. One was a girl, the other a slim, straight young Indian in deerskin shirt and trousers. The girl swung from the saddle and came forward to the camp-fire. The companion of her ride shadowed her. Beresford and his prisoner advanced from the darkness. "Bully West's after you. He's sworn to kill you," the girl called to the constable. "How do you know?" "Onistah heard him." She indicated with a wave of her hand the lithe-limbed youth beside her. "Onistah was passing the stable--behind it, back of the corral. This West was gathering a mob to follow you--said he was going to hang you for destroying his whiskey." "He is, eh?" Beresford's salient jaw set. His light blue eyes gleamed hard and chill. He would see about that. "They'll be here soon. This West was sure you'd camp here at Sweet Water Creek, close to the ford." A note of excitement pulsed in the girl's voice. "We heard 'em once behind us on the road. You'd better hurry." The constable swung toward the Montanan. His eyes bored into those of the prisoner. Would this man keep his parole or not? He would find out pretty soon. "Saddle up, Morse. I'll pack my kit. We'll hit the trail." "Listen." Jessie stood a moment, head lifted. "What's that?" Onistah moved a step forward, so that for a moment the firelight flickered over the copper-colored face. Tom Morse made a discovery. This man was the Blackfoot he had rescued from the Crees. "Horses," the Indian said, and held up the fingers of both hands to indicate the numbers. "Coming up creek. Here soon." "We'll move back to the big rocks and I'll make a stand there," the officer told the whiskey-runner. "Slap the saddles on without cinching. We've got no time to lose." His voice lost its curtness as he turned to the girl. "Miss McRae, I'll not forget this. Very likely you've saved my life. Now you and Onistah had better slip away quietly. You mustn't be seen here." "Why mustn't I?" she asked quickly. "I don't care who sees me." She looked at Morse as she spoke, head up, with that little touch of scornful defiance in the quivering nostrils that seemed to express a spirit free and unafraid. The sense of superiority is generally not a lovely manifestation in any human being, but there are moments when it tells of something fine, a disdain of actions low and mean. Morse strode away to the place where the horses were picketed. He could hear voices farther down the creek, caught once a snatch of words. "... must be somewheres near, I tell you." Noiselessly he slipped on the saddles, pulled the picket-pins, and moved toward the big rocks. The place was a landmark. The erosion of the ages had played strange tricks with the sandstone. The rocks rose like huge red toadstools or like prehistoric animals of vast size. One of them was known as the Three Bears, another as the Elephant.