“He was at my elbow a moment ago,” faltered Walsh. There was a pause while they stared blankly at each other. Then from the plain below they heard a yell of savage triumph. “Hark, what's that?” said Stephen, but his blood ran cold at the sound. “What does it mean, Rogers?” Bushrod demanded, for the yells continued. “Why don't you speak, man?” he cried. “I was listening to see if I could hear him; he must have been done for when they fetched him off with their own dead and wounded. Hear the devils yell! I reckon he can thank God Almighty he died in time;” and he licked his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. “You mean—” began Stephen in a voice of horror; but the Californian cut him short. “I tell you he was dead when they found out who they had fetched away; ain't that enough for you to know?” he cried, but he clapped his hands to his ears, and stood rocking from side to side. “How did they get so close?” asked Walsh at last. “You'd better ask Landray that,” said Rogers bitterly. “It was his watch.” He had stooped, and was picking up his rifle which he had dropped the moment before. “No, it was mine,” said Bushrod. “Why didn't you call me, Steve?” They were grateful to have something to talk of. “You were asleep, and—well, I couldn't sleep, so what was the use of calling you?” They could see now indistinctly what was passing below them; merely a dark cluster of huddled men and horses, where they waited for day to come; but with the first streaks of yellow light the plains resounded with the beat of hoofs. Half an hour passed, and then Walsh pitched forward without a word or groan, shot through the heart; an instant later Bushrod put aside his rifle. “You'll have to finish it,” he said shortly to his brother, and held up his right hand; his wrist had been shattered by a ball. He looked at the hurt member for a moment considering what he should do; and then began moodily to wrap it in long strips of cloth which he cut with his hunting-knife from the front of his shirt. The sun rose higher and higher in the sky, until its rays fell vertically on the three men and the child. Stephen and Rogers, their faces black with powder stains and their lips parched and swollen, intently watched the enemy; from time to time they warily raised themselves on their knees and made a hasty discharge of their rifles. Benny, at his father's side, helped him to load; his little face, pinched with suffering and terror, was streaked with sweat and grime. At Stephen's elbow, Bushrod, working clumsily with his uninjured hand performed the same offices for his brother; thus they managed to keep two rifles always loaded. In this manner the morning passed. The Californian's fire had slackened by imperceptible degrees; now each time his gun was loaded it was jerked recklessly to his shoulder and discharged without aim; his dark eyes lighted wildly, he began to sing the emigrant's song, “Oh, California, That's the land for me, I'm bound for San Francisco