They commenced to mount the hill, walking their horses, and sitting loosely in their saddles.  Each trooper had his reins in one hand, his rifle barrel in the other, with the butt of the weapon resting on his thigh.

They were coming straight for the rifle pit; no doubt they had marked the bushes masking it.  Ambrose saw that they were young men, slim-waisted and graceful.  The one on the right end had lost his hat through some accident.  He had fair hair that caught the sun.

This was the critical moment.  The fate of the nineteen boys and their white-haired leader hung by a hair.  Ambrose held his breath under the gag.  A cry, an untoward movement would have caused an immediate slaughter.

The Indians’ eyes glittered, their teeth showed, they fingered their rifles.  A single word from their leader would have sufficed.  Watusk longed to speak it, and could not.  The sweat was running down his yellow-gray face.

One of the horses stumbled.  The Indians with muttered exclamations flung up their guns.  Ambrose thought it was all over.

But at that moment by the grace of God, one of the troopers made a good joke, and a hearty laugh rang along the line.  The Indians lowered their guns and stared with bulging eyes.  They could not fight supermen like these.

Watusk, with the groan of total collapse, dropped his gun on the ground, and turned to escape by the path out of the pit.

Instantly there was pandemonium in the narrow place.  Some tried to escape with their leader; others blocked the way.  Ambrose saw Watusk seized and flung on the ground.  One spat in his face.  He lay where he had fallen.

Thus ended the Kakisa rebellion.  The Indians had no further thought of resistance.  The butts of their guns dropped to the ground, and they stared at the oncoming troopers with characteristic apathy.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

ANOTHER CHANGE OF JAILERS.

The police advanced to within twenty-five yards and, drawing closer together, halted.

“Watusk, come out of that!” barked the inspector in his parade ground voice.

Ambrose had his first look at him.  He was a little man, trigly built, with a bullet head under a closely cropped thatch of white.  A heavy white mustache bisected his florid face.

No one could have mistaken him in any dress, for aught but a soldier.  He did not look as if patience and fair-mindedness were included among his virtues, which was unfortunate for Ambrose as the event proved.

As Watusk gave no sign of stirring, he was seized by many hands and boosted over the edge of the pit.  He rolled over, knocking down some of the bushes and finally rose to his feet, standing with wretched, hang-dog mien.

His appearance, with the frock coat all rubbed with earth and the military gear hanging askew, caused the troopers to shout with laughter.  Here was a change from the fire-eater of half an hour before.