The wounded Indian crouched, began to run parallel with the horse, and leaped at exactly the right instant.  His hand caught the sleeve of his rescuer at the same time that the flat of his foot dropped upon the white man’s boot.  A moment, and his leg had swung across the rump of the pony and he had settled to the animal’s back.

So close was it that a running Cree snatched at the bronco’s tail and was jerked from his feet before he could release his hold.

As the cow-pony went plunging up the slope, Morse saw Brad Stearns silhouetted against the sky-line at the summit.  His hat was gone and his bald head was shining in the sun.  He was pumping bullets from his rifle at the Crees surging up the hill after his companion.

Stearns swung his horse and jumped it to a lope.  Side by side with Morse he went over the brow in a shower of arrows and slugs.

“Holy mackerel, boy!  What’s eatin’ you?” he yelled.  “Ain’t you got any sense a-tall?  Don’t you know better ’n to jump up trouble thataway?”

“We’re all right now,” the younger man said.  “They can’t catch us.”

The Crees were on foot and would be out of range by the time they reached the hilltop.

“Hmp!  They’ll come to our camp an’ raise Cain.  Why not?  What business we got monkeyin’ with their scalping sociables?  It ain’t neighborly.”

“West won’t like it,” admitted Morse.

“He’ll throw a cat fit.  What do you aim to do with yore friend Mighty-Nigh-Lose-His-Scalp?  If I know Bully—­and you can bet a silver fox fur ag’in’ a yard o’ tobacco that I do—­he won’t give no glad hand to him.  Not none.”

Morse did not know what he meant to do with him.  He had let an impulse carry him to quixotic action.  Already he was half-sorry for it, but he was obstinate enough to go through now he had started.

When he realized the situation, Bully West exploded in language sulphurous.  He announced his determination to turn the wounded man over to the Crees as soon as they arrived.

“No,” said Morse quietly.

“No what?”

“I won’t stand for that.  They’d murder him.”

“That any o’ my business—­or yours?”

“I’m makin’ it mine.”

The eyes of the two men crossed, as rapiers do, feeling out the strength back of them.  The wounded Indian, tall and slender, stood straight as an arrow, his gaze now on one, now on the other.  His face was immobile and expressionless.  It betrayed no sign of the emotions within.

“Show yore cards, Morse,” said West.  “What’s yore play?  I’m goin’ to tell the Crees to take him if they want him.  You’ll go it alone if you go to foggin’ with a six-shooter.”

The young man turned to the Indian he had rescued.  He waved a hand toward the horse from which they had just dismounted.  “Up!” he ordered.

The Indian youth caught the point instantly.  Without using the stirrups he vaulted to the saddle, light as a mountain lion.  His bare heels dug into the sides of the animal, which was off as though shot out of a gun.