“And you might have winged me,” Deadly Dan remarked with a faint smile. “One must fear the other, eh, Indian?” The light of unrestrained curiosity twinkled in the Indian’s eyes. “What is the boy to Dan?” he asked. “Why does he come back from the far-off cities of the white people to hunt him like a wolf?” “Do you really want to know?” “Red Crest eager.” “It is a secret--one that I would not whisper to the winds. But why need I keep it back when we are to fight to the death--until, probably, both fall dead? I will tell you, Red Crest. I will whisper in your ears the white man’s secret.” Deadly Dan stepped forward with the last sentence on his lips. His eagle like glance had probably detected that curiosity was mastering the young Sioux. “Now is my time!” he muttered. Red Crest had been thrown off his guard. He even went forward to greet the Sport’s secret; but the next moment, with, the restless bound of the jungle tiger, Deadly Dan shot forward, and a hand of death and vengeance was at the Indian’s throat! The vehemence of Deadly Dan’s spring lifted the Indian from the ground, and the next instant he went backward, only to fall heavily nearer the darkened mouth of the little gulch with the weight of his antagonist on his chest. “You’re a sharp redskin,” he said; “but you’ve betrayed your last man. Now go and join the brethren I sent downward from the camp on the Rosebud!” The knife flew upward, armed with vengeance, but the next instant a voice caused Dan to spring erect without having struck the deadly blow. “If you’ve no objection, pard, I’d like to take a hand in that game!” said the voice. The dirk almost dropped from Dan’s hand, and for several moments he presented a splendid picture of amazement as he stood in the moonlight, staring at the individual who had spoken. “The boy, by the cups of Bacchus!” fell from Dan’s lips. “This is a meeting most unexpected, and decidedly unpleasant. The youngster’s got the drop on me, and there’s no reason in the world why he should let up on Deadly Dan. But he doesn’t seem to recognise me. Maybe--” The Sport’s sentence was broken by the sudden spring with which Red Crest regained his feet. “Brother! brother! See! see! it is the Wolf of the Rosebud!” the Indian cried, turning to the boy. “He is on the trail once more!” A startling cry came from the youngster’s throat as he sprung forward. Deadly Dan instinctively shrunk from the revolver which the boy thrust madly into his face. He was not ready for the fatal bullet. “No!” suddenly cried the boy. “Brave men die by the pistol; cowards and murderers by the rope. Seize him, Red Crest!” A panther-like bound carried the Indian forward; he fell upon Deadly Dan, tore the knife from his hand, and made him captive. “Bring him along,” said the youth, turning away. The Sport did not resist. He seemed to have bewildered him. As he moved along, the Indian completely disarmed him; he was at the mercy of the pair.