Like a hunted wolf, sore-distressed and savage, the defeated White Chief was hidden with two of his followers in the tangled depths of Mystery Grove. He had heard, with murder in his heart, the cowboys beating about the brush in search of him and his scattered band. Luckily for them, none came within range of his revolver. The noise of the conflict had died down, the search around him had ceased, and the sun was nearly up before they found the moment to dare to skulk out of their risky retreat and make the attempt to thread the willowy trail up Sage Creek, which Nixon had followed a few hours before with such high hopes of glorious revenge. It was a dangerous gauntlet to run; but it was more dangerous to stay till day should come to light the recesses of the grove. At any rate, he chose to take chances of capture in the open. Luck seemed to favor him. No signs of his pursuers were to be seen. He was chuckling savagely to himself in the thought that he would give them the slip and have his day yet, when a cowboy, or rather a cow-girl, as his second sharper glance told him, suddenly appeared just above him on the flat. It was Alta Morgan. On returning from her brave ride to sound the warning, she had chosen the open way on the eastern side of the creek. The two saw and recognized each other simultaneously. Alta checked the scream of terror that leaped to her lips, and cut Eagle sharply with her quirt as she whirled his head to spring away from danger. She was so dazed she hardly knew which way to fly till Fred’s words flashed through her mind,--“If you sight danger, go to Uncle Dave’s.” Straight as an arrow she headed Eagle for the hills. “Ha!” gloated the White Injun, spurring his horse after her, his fear of discovery and death completely swept aside by the wicked thought that now focused all his hate and energy. He would capture and carry off the proud little puss whose spite had caused all his trouble. A thousand devilish thoughts surged through his hate-fired brain as he spurred and lashed his struggling horse in his mad effort to overtake her. It was a race for life. Eagle, seeming to sense it, strained every nerve to carry his mistress out of her terrible danger; but the exhausting work he had already done that morning had unnerved his steely muscles, and for the life of him he could not keep Bud’s cayuse from gradually closing the gap between them. They had gained the steeper hills. Both horses had to slacken speed as they raced up the slope. “On, Eagle, on!” called the terror-dazed girl, leaning over his neck in eagerness and patting it nervously. The little horse responded to that caressing touch with a new burst of speed. Up the trail he flew, gaining somewhat on his pursuers.