It was not Judah who had blown the warning blast, but it came from one of his party sent by him to warn them of the approach of the enemy. The messenger was pale as death, the veins standing out on his forehead, and his left arm hanging useless at his side. The horse, panting and covered with foam, stopped, and Maybee caught the rider in his arms. “What is it, boy?” he asked. “Rangers,” the poor fellow gasped out. “Three hundred around the old farmhouse. Coming down on you. Judah says he can hold them off until daybreak. I got out, but they shot me.” Captain Brown seemed transformed; his eyes burned like coals. Maybee put his hand on his shoulder. “What’ll you do, Captain, start now or later?” “Two hours after midnight. The boy knows his business,” was the laconic reply as drawing long, deep breaths, John Brown made for the horses. The evening was spent in preparations for the start. The camp was abandoned, the women hastily fleeing to the refuge on the mountainside. Three men were to be left to guard the cave, but every woman carried a rifle in her hand and was prepared to use it. Winona was in command of the home-guard. The last words of counsel and instruction were spoken. It was nearly daylight. Faint streaks of light were already visible in the eastern horizon. They left the camp two hours after midnight and the last look that Warren gave toward the mountain showed him the slight figure of Winona with rifle in hand waving him a farewell salute. To Maxwell the one hundred intrepid riders, with whom he was associated, represented a hopeless cause. How could they hope to conquer a force of three hundred desperadoes? But Warren knew not the valor of his companions nor the terror which the Brown men inspired. The attacking point was an hour’s fast riding from camp. The dawn increased rapidly. Maybee fell back to Warren’s side with an air of repressed excitement, and his eyes blazed. He touched the young man’s arm as they rode and pointed to the left where they saw, in a cloud of dust, another party of horsemen coming toward them. “Who are they, friends or enemies?” “Reinforcements. They are the boys Reynolds has collected to help us. Nothing the matter with him or them, you bet. Reynolds ain’t been the same since Steward was killed. His heart’s broke ’long with it an’ he’s wil’ fer revenge. Every one of the boys with him is a fighter, too, from ’way back. I know ’em, Maxwell; an’ now, ------ me, if we don’t give them hell-hounds the biggest thrashing they’ve had since the campaign opened, you may call me a squaw. But who’s that riding beside Reynolds?” he broke off abruptly. “Dog my cats, may I be teetotally smashed ef it don’t look like Parson Steward!” “No!” cried Warren in a fever of excitement at the words. “Impossible!” “We’ll soon know,” replied Maybee.