It seemed a long time before they came again in sight.  Lilian had just said, “They’ve turned on the Climbing Hill road,” when they burst into full view on a not-distant summit and halted.

Lilian could distinctly see them pointing, as if discussing the way to take.  Then, of one accord, they put spurs to their ponies and came wildly dashing down the slope.

Lilian turned deadly pale.

“Mother,” she gasped, “they are Indians!”

Mrs. Wyman grew pale also.  During her short life in the West she had seen only one or two isolated Indians, and those always at railway stations—­dull, commonplace creatures enough, and with nothing suggestive of the warrior about them.

“Where is your father?” she asked, with something of a tremor in her voice.

“Probably over at the sheep-sheds,” faltered Lilian.  “He’s always there near noon.  I wish—­I wish the boys were here.”

“They’ll be coming directly.  Look again now, Lilian.  They are approaching very fast.”

Indeed the Indians were coming on fast.  They were now in plain sight on the long incline and were riding at a full gallop, gesticulating and pressing forward with what looked to Lilian like savage fierceness.

“They will go by no doubt,” said Mrs. Wyman, her native courage reasserting itself.  “They are probably out in search of lost ponies or—­”

“Look, mother!  See!  They are not going by.  They have halted, and are pointing to the house.  See!  They are turning in at the lane.  Oh, mother!”

“Never mind, dear.  They want to inquire, perhaps—­”

But while she was speaking, the Indians had wheeled into the gateway and swept up with a headlong pace to the very door.

They swung themselves from their saddles, tethered their ponies to the hitching rails and came quickly up on the porch.

Mrs. Wyman had thrown off her momentary fear.  She stepped to the door and opened it.  Lilian trembled in every muscle.  The leader of the party was a huge fellow, much taller than his followers.  He was more fantastic in his dress, too, and had streaks of paint on his cheeks.  The rest had turkey feathers stuck into the bands of their slouch hats, and all had blankets over their shoulders.

The chief uttered a surly “How!” and made a motion of his hand to his mouth that he would like something to eat.

Mrs. Wyman smiled cordially, and said, “Come in.”

He obeyed directly, the rest stalking after him in perfect silence.  They went at once through the sitting-room to the kitchen stove and held out their hands to warm.

This done, they squatted on the floor, with various low guttural sounds to each other, as if exchanging views.  They apparently approved of the comfort, for a stolid silence ensued.

Lilian was absolutely spellbound with terror and could not move.  Mrs. Wyman went to the pantry to prepare them food.