Their hurried entrance into camp created some consternation, and the story they had to tell made every one uneasy. A council of war was held, and the camp was moved to another spot, where the frontiersmen might make a better stand, in case of an attack. Two anxious hours went by, and all looked for the return of Sam Barringford, but he did not come. Then it began to grow dark, and guards were posted all around the camp, to give the alarm at the first appearance of any Indians. Dave was on guard duty, close to some rocks which the wind had swept clear of snow, when he saw a figure stealing across an open glade a short distance away. Hardly had the figure appeared when two Indians came into view, each with a bow and arrows. Both red men aimed at the other figure and sent an arrow on its way. The figure threw up its arms and pitched headlong in the snow, beside a clump of bushes. “It must be Sam Barringford!” cried the youth, to himself. “Sam—and he has been shot!” It was an awful thought, and for the moment Dave did not know what to do. Then, as the Indians came closer, he took aim at one with his rifle and blazed away. The Indian staggered and fell, and then dragged himself back from the direction he had come, seriously wounded. The second Indian ran away and was quickly lost to view in the tall timber. Dave was busy reloading, when his uncle rushed up, followed by two frontiersmen, all with their rifles in readiness to resist an attack. “What was it, Dave?” questioned his uncle. And when told, he added: “Was it Sam?” “I think so. He dropped——There he is now!” As the youth uttered the words the man who had fallen picked himself up in a dazed way. He walked a few paces in one direction and then turned and walked in another. Clearly he did not know what he was doing. “He has been struck and is hurt,” said Joseph Morris. “Hello, come this way!” he called out. “Come this way!” The man at first paid no attention, but presently he came towards them, reeling and staggering from weakness. One arrow was sticking through his arm, and the second had grazed the back of his head. “Save me!” he moaned. “Don’t let the—them ki—kill me!” “We’ll do what we can for you,” answered Joseph Morris, and ran to take the man by the arm. He was an utter stranger, tall and slim, with curly black hair and dark eyes. His clothing had once been of the best, but was now much soiled and in rags. “The Indians—they are all coming!” gasped the man, when he felt able to speak once more. “They have plotted to fall upon a pack-train bound for th—the we—west. I was their prisoner and thought to—to get to the pack-train and warn them of——” He tried to go on, but could not, and sank a leaden weight in Joseph Morris’s arms. “Poor fellow, he is almost done for,” said one of the frontiersmen. “I don’t think he will live.” “Let us carry him into camp,” answered Joseph Morris. “He may not be so badly hurt as you think.”