Just above his secret resting-place, where the great woods deepen, and the gloomy shadows lie darkly all through the long afternoons, a small party of hideously painted savages skulked silently in ambush.  Suddenly to their strained ears was borne the sound of horses’ hoofs; and then, all at once, a woman’s voice rang out in a single shrill, startled cry.

“Whut is up?” questioned the leading savage, hoarsely.  “Is he a-doin’ this little job all by hisself?”

“Dunno,” answered the fellow next him, flipping his quirt uneasily; “but I reckon as how it’s her as squealed, an’ we ’d better be gitting in ter hev our share o’ the fun.”

The “chief,” with an oath of disgust, dashed forward, and his band surged after.  Just below them, and scarcely fifty feet away, a half-score of roughly clad, heavily bearded men were clustered in the centre of the trail, two of their number lifting the unconscious form of a fainting woman upon a horse.

“Cervera’s gang, by gosh!” panted the leading savage.  “How did they git yere?”

“You bet!  She’s up agin the real thing,” ejaculated a voice beside him.  “Let’s ride ’em off the earth!  Whoop!”

With wild yells to awaken fresh courage, the whole band plunged headlong down the sharp decline, striking the surprised “road-agents” with a force and suddenness which sent half of them sprawling.  Revolvers flashed, oaths and shouts rang out fiercely, men clinched each other, striking savage blows.  Lumley grasped the leader of the other party by the hair, and endeavored to beat him over the head with his revolver butt.  Even as he uplifted his hand to strike, the man’s beard fell off, and the two fierce combatants paused as though thunderstruck.

“Hold on yere, boy!” yelled Lumley.  “This yere is some blame joke.  These fellers is Bill McNeil’s gang.”

“By thunder! if it ain’t Pete Lumley,” ejaculated the other.  “Whut did ye hit me fer, ye long-legged minin’ jackass?”

The explanation was never uttered.  Out from the surrounding gloom of underbrush a hatless, dishevelled individual on foot suddenly dashed into the centre of that hesitating ring of horsemen.  With skilful twist of his foot he sent a dismounted road-agent spinning over backward, and managed to wrench a revolver from his hand.  There was a blaze of red flame, a cloud of smoke, six sharp reports, and a wild stampede of frantic horsemen.

Then the Reverend Howard Wynkoop flung the empty gun disdainfully down into the dirt, stepped directly across the motionless outstretched body, and knelt humbly beside a slender, white-robed figure lying close against the fringe of bushes.  Tenderly he lifted the fair head to his throbbing bosom, and gazed directly down into the white, unconscious face.  Even as he looked her eyes unclosed, her body trembling within his arms.

“Have no fear,” he implored, reading terror in the expression of her face.  “Miss Spencer—­Phoebe—­it is only I, Mr. Wynkoop.”