The mother was straining her vision in the same direction, watching for that which she longed and yet dreaded to see.  But years had compelled her to use glasses, and her eyes were not the equal of those bright orbs of Jennie.  She would be the first to detect the approaching horsemen.

A good field-glass was in the house, but neither thought of it; their attention was too deeply absorbed.

“It is time they appeared,” remarked Mrs. Whitney, her heart sinking under the dreadful fear of the possible reason why they remained invisible.

Suppose there was none to appear!

But those keen eyes of the maiden have detected something, and she starts and peers more intently than before.

Far to the southward, in the direction of the mountain spurs, and on the very boundary of her vision, a black speck seems to be quivering and flickering, so indistinct, so impalpable, that none but the experienced eye can guess its nature.

But the eye which is studying it is an experienced one.  Many a time it has gazed across the rolling prairie, and identified the loved father and brother before another could discover a person at all.

“Some one is coming,” she says to her mother.

“Some one!” is the alarmed response; “are there no more?”

“There may be, but this one is in advance.”

“But why should he be in advance of the rest?” is the query, born of the fear in the heart of the parent.

“It is not mine to answer for the present; he may be better mounted and is coming for—­for—­”

“For what?”

“Help.”

“Help!  What help can we give them?”

“We have a gun in the house, and there is plenty of ammunition.”

“That means they have suffered—­have been defeated.  Look closely, Jennie; do you see no others?”

She has been searching for them from the first.  The approaching horseman is now fully defined against the dark-green of the mountains, and the country for half a mile is in clear view.

Over this broad expanse Jennie Whitney’s eyes rove, and her heart seems to stand still as she answers: 

“He is alone; I see no others.”

“Then he brings evil tidings!  Our people have been defeated; more than one has fallen.”

The approaching horseman was riding furiously.  His fleet animal was on a dead run, his neck outstretched, mane and tail streaming as he thundered through the hurricane created by his own tremendous speed.

The man who sat in the saddle was a perfect equestrian, as are all the cowmen and rustlers of the West.  He leaned forward, as if he would help his horse to reach his goal at the earliest instant.  His broad-brimmed hat fitted so well that it kept its place on his head without any fastening; but his own long, dark locks fluttered over his brawny shoulders, while the trusty Winchester was held in a firm grasp across the saddle in front, where it could be used on the second needed.