“Quick—Fenton, you an’ Morley come ’th me,” he cried, eagerly. “Rest o’ you stay here an’ keep the imps back ef they try to run out. We’ll fix ’em—hurry.” As he spoke he turned his horse’s head to one side and dashed rapidly up to the hill’s base, here steep and rugged. Though not exactly comprehending his purpose, the two men designated by name followed him without hesitation. Dismounting they clambered rapidly up the hill, soon gaining the top. An exultant shout broke from Ruel’s lips as he saw that he was in time. If indeed the Kiowas contemplated escape by such means, they would find their path a gantlet of death. The defile alluded to ended in a steep hill, up which a horse could climb, though with difficulty. This once surmounted, a broad, gentle slope led down to the prairie beyond. Ruel’s position commanded this ascent, and was within easy pistol range. “Good! we’ve got ’em in a hole, now!” he chuckled, breathing hard with fatigue. “We kin make things hot for ’em, I reckon!” But, though he suspected it not, he was even then, in a measure, being outwitted. Chigilli had no intention of fleeing further. With his men dismounted and well covered, he felt able to beat back the settlers should they attack him, until help should arrive, and not a score seconds before Ruel reached his station, a Kiowa crossed the ridge, sent to hurry up the other band! CHAPTER IX. A STRANGE PROPOSAL. The hours dragged by drearily enough with Ned Campbell, though for a part of the time he had the beautiful Lola for a guard. But after the first flush of surprise, Ned gave her little attention. His mind was filled with thoughts of his lost love, Fannie Hawksley, whom the old man, his captor, declared was dead. Though the young hunter tried to believe this a falsehood, his success was only partial. At times he would believe that Fannie was indeed dead—murdered—and in the agony of his soul he would groan aloud, almost praying for death that he might be reunited to her, in spirit if not in life. Campbell was aroused from one of these fits of gloomy despondency by a low, taunting laugh sounding from close beside him, and hastily glancing up, he perceived that the old man had taken Lola’s position. The almost diabolical expression of triumph that rested upon his face, startled the young hunter, and he resolved to give his enemy no more such gleeful moments. “Who are you that my misery should give you so much pleasure?” he demanded, with ill-concealed curiosity. “I promised to tell you—and this is as good a time as any to keep my word,” slowly replied the old man, sinking down upon the rude stool that had been so recently occupied by a much more agreeable figure. “You may or you may not remember something of the matter, when I tell you that my name is Albert Mestayer.”