Though brief, it was bloody in the extreme. For a few moments the Kiowas fought bravely, but then the rapid detonation of the white men’s revolvers proved too much for their courage, and the survivors fled up the hollow, only to encounter another foe. Zeb Ruel and his two companions, Fenton and Morley, being out of sight of their comrades below, knew nothing of their movements until the sound of firearms, together with vengeful shouts and shrill cries, announced the commencement of the struggle. Divining the truth, they began descending the ridge side, in order to assist their comrades. Though too late to take part in the struggle proper, the fleeing red-skins ran headlong against their weapons. Three rifle-cracks, and only two Kiowas remained, standing bewildered by this new and unexpected danger. Then, amidst a storm of revolver bullets, they tried to scale the steep hill, but ere half-way to its top, the last Kiowa flung aloft his arms, and rolled back to the base, dead. Mestayer had fought bravely, but his time had come. Both Colton and Hawksley assailed him. Colton fell, with a bullet through his breast, but before the outlaw could do more, Hawksley was upon him. In the desperate struggle that ensued, his wounds aided in giving the settler the victory, and ere the last reports echoed from up the valley, Mestayer was securely bound, a prisoner. “Who is’t ye’ve got, Hawksley?” cried Zeb Ruel, coming up at this moment. “Hellow, Jap Morton, as I’m a sinner!” “The man that carried off Fannie, I believe,” but the settler hesitated as he now for the first time took a good square look at his captive. “I never stole her—I know nothing about the matter,” sullenly replied Mestayer, his eyes drooping. “You lie, villain!” snarled Hawksley, springing upon the prostrate figure. “Tell me—tell me quick, or I’ll choke the vile life out of your carcass!” “Easy—easy, neighbor,” quoth Ruel, as he dragged the infuriated settler from his victim. “A feller cain’t easy speak when his thrapple is shet tight in a vise. Leave the or’nery cuss to me. I’ll bring him round, I reckon. D’ y’ hear, Jap Morton?—best tell me what ye know.” “I’ll tell you all I know. It’s not much, but it’ll show you that I had no hand in the matter. An old man named Albert Mestayer, in disguise, deceived you and stole your daughter.” “You’re lying now!” “I’m not—it’s the truth. You may not believe it, for the report was spread long ago that he was dead. Have you forgotten the man who killed your brother, Christopher Hawksley?” The settler staggered back as though dealt a deadly blow. He had not recognized the name at first, so many years had passed by since those dark days. Seeing his agitation, Ruel took up the examination. “What’d he steal her fer?” “Revenge. Hawksley knows for what.” “I do—go on,” faintly muttered the settler.