This promise made, the council turned again to the main issue, and soon decided on a plan of action. They were to follow their old chief’s advice. About midnight the squaws and papooses under his lead were to make a forced march, while the bucks stayed behind to guard the trail. The white girl was not to be harmed, but taken back in the morning to the mouth of the pass and set free. All might have gone as planned, if Bud had not broken faith with the Indians. Flying Arrow, fearing treachery on his part, kept catlike watch of the White Chief’s movements. While all this was happening, Fred and Uncle Dave were cautiously following the trail of the Indians. The keen eyes of the old mountaineer brought them at last within sight of the hidden camp. But how to get into it and free the captive was the trying problem. All fires were out and all voices were hushed. To break into the camp openly would be madness; and they could expect no help for hours, when if fortune favored them it might come. For they had sent word back by a straggling rancher they had chanced to meet. It might be that the cowboys would find the uncertain trail; but their help at best would come late. Something must be done at once. “If I could only find out whar they’re keepin’ the gal,” said Uncle Dave, “I’d risk passin’ the word to her; but it’s hard to tell. I’m goin’ to risk it anyway.” “Let me go with you,” urged Fred. “No; ’tain’t no use o’ both of us runnin’ into a trap. You kin help better by stayin’ here with the horses while I steal down among ’em and try to git the lay o’ things.” He handed Fred the reins, and picked his way cautiously through the darkness toward the quiet camp. The mental torture that Alta was enduring throughout these long hours was terrible. Desperate to do something, yet powerless; fearing death not half so much as the villain’s touch, she sat within the wigwam resolved to kill herself rather than suffer dishonor. A hundred plans of escape passed through her brain, but she dared not risk any of them. Dreading the worst, yet praying and hoping for deliverance, she held herself from doing anything desperate. The night was advancing. The squaws that guarded her wigwam had ceased their chatter, and sat dozing outside; nothing was audible except the night noises. Suddenly she felt a light tapping on the tent. Her heart almost stopped beating. Then a voice whispered her name. She could have leaped for joy, but fear held her quiet. She crept to the edge of the tent and whispered her answer, “Yes, I’m here.” “Keep your courage, gal; we’ll save you.” “Oh, you will, will you,” came the gruff voice of Bud Nixon, who with evil thought in his brain had also crept up to the girl’s tepee. “Take that, you sneaking devil!” A revolver shot rang out. There was a groan and a heavy fall. The old mountaineer, struck in the back by the villain’s bullet, had pitched forward and fallen against the tent.