Two days had passed since they had left the fateful ford, and they had covered thirty-two miles, over a trail which the past rains had left in anything but a good condition. They had been on guard every minute, day and night, their nerves strung to top tension. The early morning had taken them through a spot lined upon either side with tall rocks, and they had expected a shot at almost every turn—but nothing had come to disturb them. Considering the condition of the road, the horses had done well. Only one was injured,—from slipping over some rocks,—but he could still carry his load. Nobody was sick, although the constant worry had given Mrs. Dobson a headache. “While we are waiting for dinner, let us go ahead and look at the trail,” suggested Rodney; and Barringford agreed. Not far off was another hollow, backed by a cliff of rocks, overgrown with heavy vines, and they were both anxious to know what was beyond. They gained the region of the cliff without difficulty. To save himself the trouble of climbing the rough rocks, Rodney tested the vines and then commenced to pull himself up, hand over hand. “Be careful that you don’t fall!” cried the old frontiersman. “These rocks at the bottom ain’t no easy bed to drop on, I kin tell ye thet!” “The vines are strong enough to hold a horse,” answered the young soldier. He continued to go up, until he was a good fifteen feet over Barringford’s head. He had still six feet to go, when he heard a slight sound from above. “Must be the vines tearing away,” he told himself, after a pause. “Maybe they are not as strong as I thought they were.” [Illustration: He glanced up, saw his dire peril, and let himself drop.—_Page 77._] He waited and then went up an additional foot or two. The vines held, and he took another grip of them a little higher up. His head was now within a yard of the top of the cliff, which was covered with the vines and a stunted growth of bushes. Suddenly, from out of the bushes, there appeared the head of an Indian, bedecked in war-paint and feathers. Then a long, bronzed arm stole forward, holding a tomahawk. The tomahawk was raised and a blow was aimed at Rodney’s head. Had the blow fallen as intended, the young soldier’s skull must have been cleft in twain. He glanced up, saw his dire peril, and let himself drop. An instant later a shot rang out from below, and the Indian’s hand quivered and the hatchet slipped down among the vines and out of sight. Rodney struck the rocks below heavily and rolled over. When he sat up he found Sam Barringford beside him, the smoke still rolling out of the frontiersman’s gun. “Oh, Sam——” he began, and knew not what further to say. “Press in clost to the wall,” answered the frontiersman, hastily, and began to reload his rifle with all speed. Rodney’s gun stood against the rocks, where he had left it on starting to mount the cliff. “Did you hit him, Sam?”