In fact, the crisis that he had feared seemed to the Indian agent's mind to have passed the crucial point. The cavalry from Fort Miles would be at Sentinel Peak that evening. From there it was not a long ride to the valley in which the dance was to be held. By midnight, he felt certain, things would be in train for the peaceful return of the Moquis to their reservation. Jeffries Mayberry was, as our readers have doubtless decided by this time, a man to whom the idea of bloodshed or violence was abhorrent, but also a man who looked upon duty unflinchingly. He regarded the Moquis more as children to be looked after, and chided, and reasoned with, than as bloodthirsty and cruel savages, in whom a thin veneer of civilization only skinned the savagery festering below. Men had often told Jeffries Mayberry that his view of the Indian character was wrong, but he had always defended his views. They were shortly destined to be put to the severest test a man's theories ever were called upon to bear. The Indian agent had ridden easily down the trail some two miles or so in the direction of Sentinel Mountain, when Ranger suddenly swerved so violently from the trail as almost to unseat him. "Steady, boy, steady!" soothed the agent, patting the alarmed animal's neck. "What is it?" Ranger snorted violently and then, trembling in every limb, came to a dead stop. "Why, Ranger, I----" began Mr. Mayberry, when, with hideous yells, several dark forms rushed from the surrounding gloom. As their soul-chilling yell burst from those hideously painted faces, distorted with the vilest of passions, a terrific blow was dealt the Indian agent from behind, and he fell forward, almost beneath the trampling hoofs of the maddened Ranger. His assailants were the same Indians who had been trailing him all the previous night, and who had lain in wait for him outside the settlement. The taste of blood is said to transmute a hitherto peaceful sheep dog into a creature more dangerous to his flock than even a marauding wolf. In like manner, the Moquis' dash off the reservation had converted them into a ferocity of mind which had speedily wiped off the varnish civilization had applied so painstakingly. While one of the Indians, seemingly the leader of the band, possessed himself of the agent's fine rifle, another hastened to seize the plunging Ranger's bridle. But the animal, beside himself with rage and fear, reared straight upright. Angered, the Indian dealt him a blow with a heavy rawhide quirt. With a squeal of rage, Ranger struck with his iron-shod forefeet at the redskin, and striking him on the head, toppled him over in the road beside his master. The fellow, however, was not badly hurt, and was soon on his feet again. Meanwhile, the other red men hoisted the agent's unconscious form over the back of one of their ponies.