Now, oddly enough, when she might have been expected to cry out in her terror, her anger rose. That quick rising anger which Seth understood so well and smiled at. And she spoke without a shadow of fear in her tone. Her use of the Sioux tongue was not perfect, and her words gained force therefrom. "The princess cannot wed the chief," she said. "It is not according to the law of the palefaces. Go--go back to your tepees, and the squaws of your race. Leave me to go in peace. I have to go back to my people." There was a moment's pause, during which a dog's yelp might have been heard by any less occupied. The sound was such as is the yelp of a foxhound drawing a cover. The chief's face had changed its expression; his passion was subservient to his native ferocity, and his face displayed it. "I have asked," he said, "I, Little Black Fox, who am chief. I have said come to me. The paleface girl treats me like any dog. So. I have done. The spirit of Big Wolf, my father, enters my body. Like him, who took the princess and held her for his son, I will take that for which I have asked. There shall be no peace with your race." He raised an arm to seize her by the waist. The girl saw his intention, and a wild fear dilated her eyes. But she did not lose her head. She suddenly spurred her broncho with a little vicious stab. The animal, already on his mettle, charged forward desperately, taking the pony of the Indian facing it in the chest and throwing it back upon its haunches. But the chief was round like lightning. He saw nothing, heeded nothing but the possible escape of this white girl, and that he had no intention of permitting. Had he been less engrossed he would have seen a dog rush madly into the clearing, and, in the manner of a cattle dog, incontinently begin a savage assault on the heels of the Indians' ponies. No human intelligence could have conceived a more effective plan, for the braves were thrown into utter confusion. Little Black Fox came up with the fugitive, and, leaning over, caught the girl in his strong young arms. He meant to lift her from the saddle, but he held her thus only for a bare second. There was the sharp crack of a revolver, and Rosebud felt his grasp relax. He sat up on his horse and looked about him fiercely, then he reeled and clutched his pony's mane, while Seth, shouting encouragement to the terrified girl, came at him from out of the woods. He came with such a cry of rage and fury that his voice was almost unrecognizable. His face, usually so calm, was flaming. His smoking revolver was raised aloft and, as his horse charged into that of the wounded chief, it fell crashing on to the befeathered head, and the man went down like a log. "You gol durned black heathen!" Seth cried. Then his rage died out before the greater emergency. "Ride, Rosebud! The woods, and turn left. Ride like hell!"