“Hold on!” I yelled, springing forward, my arms thrown up, directly in the animal’s course.  “Stop, you fool!”

I know not whether the frantic horse checked itself, or if the rider drew rein, but the beast stopped, half rearing, and I gazed with amazement into the revealed face of the man—­he was Joe Kirby.  Before I could speak, or move, he burst into words.

“You!  Knox!  My God, man, whoever you are, don’t refuse me shelter!”

“Shelter? from what?” my hand closing on a pistol butt.

“Indians!  Be merciful, for God’s sake.  They are there in the valley, they are after me.  I just escaped them—­they were going to burn me at the stake!”

I glanced aside at Tim; his rifle was flung forward.  Then I looked quickly back at the man, who had already dropped from his horse, and seemed scarcely able to stand.  Was this true, had he ridden here unknowing whom he would meet, with no other thought but to save his life?  Heaven knows he looked the part—­his swarthy face dirtied, with a stain of blood on one cheek, his shirt ripped into rags, bare-headed, and with a look of terror in his eyes not to be mistaken.  Villain and savage as I knew him to be, I still felt a strange wave of pity sweep me—­pity and tenderness, mingled with hatred and distrust.

“Kirby,” I said, and strode in between him and Tim’s levelled weapon.  “There is no friendship between us—­now, or at any time.  I believe you to be a miserable, snarling dog; but I would save even a cur from Indian torture.  Did you know we were here?”

“No, so help me God.  I saw the cabin, and hoped to find help.”

“The savages are following you?”

“Yes—­yes; see!  Look down there—­there are half a hundred of the devils, and—­and Black Hawk.”

“By the Holy Smoke, Cap, he’s right—­there they are!” sung out Kennedy, pointing excitedly.  “The cuss ain’t a lyin’.  What’ll we do?”

I saw them also by this time, my mind in a whirl of indecision.  What should we do?  What ought we to do?  We should have to fight to the death—­there was no doubt of that.  An attempt to get away was manifestly impossible.  But what about this renegade? this infernal scoundrel? this hell-hound who had been trailing us to kill and destroy?  Should we turn him back now to his deserved fate? or should we offer him the same chance for life we had?  He might fight; he might add one rifle to our defense; he might help us to hold out until rescuers came.  And then—­then—­after that—­we could settle our score.  Tim’s voice broke the silence.

“I reckon we ain’t got much time,” he said grimly.  “It’s one thing, ‘er the other.  I’m fer givin’ the damn begger a chanst.  I can’t turn no white man over ter Injuns—­not me.  Kirby’s got a gun, an’ I reckon we’re goin’ fer ter need ’em all afore this blame fracas is over with.”

“And I agree with you, Mr. Kennedy,” said Eloise, clearly, speaking from the open door.  “Lieutenant Knox, no one here has more to forgive than I. We must give the man refuge—­it would be inhuman not to.”