A moment later other signals were heard issuing from near where the Indian camp was, and answers seemed to come from several different quarters. Macleod, who was as plucky as they make ’em, suggested a repetition of the previous tactics. But I remonstrated. I held that we ought to stand together; I fully realized that if anything happened to him, the Lord only knew how I would get out of that tangled maze of country. Besides, between you and me, there are times when one would rather not be altogether alone, and this was one of them. He persisted, however, in following out his plan of campaign, and told me to take my bearings by a couple of stars which he pointed out. If he didn’t turn up soon, I was to be guided by them until I reached the trail leading to the boat. I went on with the broncho and the buckboard, and if ever an astronomer watched stars as steadfastly as I did, he’s a wonder. My neck would get stiff as a poker from the unusual craning it had to undergo, and then I would bend it down to ease it, and when I again glanced upwards I would catch a couple of other stars, until I honestly believe the whole firmament was completely taken in. My idea of location was disgustingly hazy, but I had a firm impression when I saw what I thought to be a blanketed Indian sneaking towards me that, once I got a fair shot at him, I would make a break for the timber and never stop until I struck the Gulf of Mexico or some other place near a railway. The tension was extreme; it is the dread of the unknown and the unseen and the darkness and the uncertainty that make a fellow’s flesh creep. I—and the broncho-buckboard combination—were strategically placed, and with gun drawn over the animal’s withers I was prepared to make a good Indian out of at least one redskin. The figure came nearer and nearer, and, however it was, while my heart beats sounded like the pounding of a big bass drum, my hand was steady, and my mind strayed away from thoughts of my predicament. Every incident of a lifetime flashed before me, trivial events that had long before been forgotten, occurrences that had not been recalled to memory in many a day. I thought of those at home, and of my first little boy Jack, dead and gone, and wondered if he would know me in the other world. I guess it’s that way when one feels he’s facing death. Mr. Indian was just within good range, but I was waiting to make sure of him, when “all right” was sounded. My fancied Indian was Macleod himself. I never was so glad to see anybody in all my whole life, even my best girl. He had not only evaded the enemy, but—the Indian’s craftiness doesn’t amount to much at night—he had put him on the wrong track. There was but one fly in our pot of ointment. We were off the trail and how far off we didn’t know—but we knew that if we kept due west we would strike the trail leading to the river somewhere or other this side of the Rocky Mountains.