Taking advantage of the momentary pause that resulted, the little man managed to drag himself to his feet. Now he hurled himself, bonds and all, at the figure of Williams. With a snarl of fury, that highly moral and conscientious individual snatched his revolver from its holster and fired twice, point blank. Both bullets buried themselves in Peterson’s breast. The little man stopped, stood still an instant with an old, surprised expression on his face, and crumpled up in the dust of the road. “Don’t stand there gawpin’, you fools!” There was a note of alarm in the Wasp’s shout. “Quick! Git aboard them nags o’ yourn an’ clear out! First thing y’ know, we’ll have a flock o’ them black devils on our heels. I’ll take care o’ this here person.” He leaped at the girl, lifted her in his arms, and carried her in among the trees. He thrust her upon his horse. She was too stunned by the sudden catastrophe that had just taken place to resist. Williams sprang up behind her. Several minutes later all were in the saddle and driving in their spurs. But they had not gone twenty yards when there was a heavy crashing among the underbrush. A moment later black figures seemed to swarm into the road in front of them. So sharp and furious was the onslaught that the demoralized ruffians had no time to prepare themselves for the shock. Some of them were literally ridden down; others managed to fire a few scattered shots before the attackers were upon them; the majority turned tail and fled. The leader of the newcomers had picked out one man and ridden straight at him. Williams had no opportunity even to draw his weapon when the other’s fist smashed him senseless to the road. In less time than it takes to tell it the mêlée was over. Those of the defeated party that had not escaped, or gone down in the skirmish, were standing sullenly in the road, well guarded by the rescuers. The steady drum of galloping hoofs and the occasional crack of revolvers, dying away in the distance, told of relentless pursuit of the rest. “Rand, Rand—come quick! Cut these cords!” At the girl’s despairing cry, the leader had dashed again to her side. In a moment she was free. She leaped weakly down, and stood there, grasping the saddle for support. “Peterson!” she gasped. “Williams shot him—when he—blew the whistle! Back there on the road!” Then she let go and rushed dizzily back to where the little, gray-haired man lay on his side. Careless alike of pain and the eyes that watched her, she dropped beside him and took his head into her lap. Little wordless murmurings fell from her lips. Peterson opened his swiftly dimming eyes and looked up. He recognized the two faces bending over him. A smile, a shadowy reflection of the pleasant expression that had given him his nickname, hovered round his lips. “Guess—it’s—good-by—this time,” he whispered faintly. “Rand, reckon you can—open—that letter now. An’—an’—take care—o’—Miss Jeanne here. She’s a fine—girl—a almighty—fine—fine—”