“It’ll come by-and-bye,” he sighed, as the cramped position of his arms pained him.  “I don’t know what they’re waitin’ fur.  Mebbe they want to get up such a high old time with me that they’re writin’ out a programme, and have sent to New Orleans fur a band of music.  Thar’s nothing like doing these things up in style, and I s’pose Lone Wolf means to honor me in that way.”

At a late hour, the moon arose, and the light penetrated the ravine, where the strange, motley crowd congregated.  The fire still burned, and no one showed any disposition to sleep.  By way of relief, the scout lay over upon his side, and was looking up at the clear moon-lit sky when he heard the tramp of horses, and immediately rose up again.

He saw the chieftain, whom he had observed a few hours before, as he came in with his news of the destruction of New Boston, accompanied by two others, all mounted.  They rode up in such a position that they surrounded the captive, who was suddenly lifted by a couple of Apaches, and placed astride of the mustang in front of the young chief.  The next minute the quartette moved off.

“Skulp me! if I know what this means!” muttered Sut, who felt uneasy over the new turn of affairs.  “Things are getting sort of mixed just now.”

He hoped that he would learn something of the purpose of the three redskins from their conversation as they rode along; but unfortunately for that hope, they did not exchange a word.  When they had ridden a fourth of a mile, Sut caught the flash of a knife in the chieftain’s hand.  The next instant, it moved swiftly along his back, and the lariat was cut in many pieces.  The arms of the scout were freed, although for some minutes they were so benumbed that he could scarcely move them.

What did all this mean?  Fully another quarter of a mile was ridden in silence, when the three halted, and Sut felt that the critical moment had arrived.  The chief dismounted from the horse, leaving the scout seated thereon.  One of the others reached over and handed him his own gun, while the third passed him back his long knife.

“Wall, if I’m to fight all three of yer, sail in!” called out Sut, gathering himself for a charge from them.

They made no reply.  The chief vaulted upon one of the other horses, behind the warrior, and, as he did so, a fourth figure advanced and leaped upon the other, so that there were two Indians upon each mustang.  The scout scrutinized the new comer, as well as he could in the moonlight.

Yes, there was no mistake about his identity.  It was Lone Wolf, who remained as silent as the others.

The heads of the mustangs were turned down the ravine again, and they struck into a gallop, the sound of their hoofs coming back fainter and more faintly, until they died in the night.  Sut Simpson was free, and free without a fight, as he realized, when he gave his horse the word, and he dropped into an easy gait in a direction opposite to that taken by the Apaches.