Up from their blankets sprang the few sleepers. In from their stations scurried the outlying sentries. Rattle went the bits between the teeth of the excited chargers. Slap went the saddles on the broad, glossy backs. There was hurry and rush and swift leaping for arms, the snap of cinchas, the snorting of steeds, yet not a word was spoken until the low order to lead into line; and straightway old Drum marshalled his men, silent, yet with hearts beating like hammers, and then down their front rode their youthful lieutenant, a stranger to all but a month agone, yet now they lived on his slightest word. Oh, what thoughts--what thoughts of mother and home, and the brave old days of boyhood and the Point, had been winging through his brain during the long hours of the day! But now--now there was no time for thought! There was time only for action; for a fellow-man lay in deadly peril, in dreadful torment, only a short mile away. "Not a sound--not a shot, men," he ordered, as the quivering line reined up before him. "Follow our lead, stampede the ponies, and charge through the crowd; then rally quick as you can." Splash! drove the leaders into the shallows. Breast deep, foaming, they spurred through the stream, the troop plunging after, with carbines slung over their shoulders. Out on the opposite bank and up to the "bench" they swarmed, then veered away northward over the resounding level, Geordie and Connell, classmates and chums, bounding away in advance. No danger of Indian eyes or ears, no dread of hindering shot or ambush. When the pale-face writhes at the torture stake, even Indian vedette forgets his trade for the lust of such luxury as witnessing that. Up into line with the leading four galloped the chargers in rear. On toward the leaping flames in the grove led those lithe young riders ahead. Mad with excitement, some nervous new horses snatched at their bits and burst from the line, and Geordie, glancing back, saw them gaining in spite of restraining hand. What mattered it, anyhow? Every second was precious. The ground was open, the herded ponies less than half a mile forward, and already alarmed. "Let 'em go!" he shouted, with a wave of the revolver over his head. "Straight through the herd, men. _Ch-a-a-a-rge!_" [Illustration: "'STRAIGHT THROUGH THE HERD, MEN. _CH-A-A-A-RGE!_'"]