“Then you’re almost sure to meet the lieutenant to-night or to-morrow.  He’s been scouting the Santa Maria and the Christobal and is due along here at this very moment.”

And now Miss Harvey had the field to herself, for the younger sister drew back into the dark depths of the covered wagon and spoke no more.  In ten minutes the team was rattling down the eastward slope, and Sergeant Wing turned with a sigh, as at last even the sound of hoof and wheel had died away.  Slowly he climbed the steep and crooked trail to their aerie at the peak.  No sign of Jackson yet, no message from the ranch, no signal-fires at Moreno’s or beyond.  Yet, was he right in telling Harvey with such precious freight to push on across that open plain when there was even rumor of Apache in the air?  The loveliness of those two dark, radiant faces, the pretty white teeth flashing in the lantern light, the soft, silvery, girlish voices, the kindly, cordial hand-clasp vouchsafed him by the elder, as they rolled away,—­these were things to stir the heart of any man long exiled in this desert land.  It had been his custom to spend an hour in chat with his comrades before turning in for the night; but with Jackson still away and Pike still plunged in gloom, with, moreover, new and stirring emotions to investigate and analyze, Wing strolled off by himself, passed around the rocky buttress at the point and came to the broad ledge overlooking the eastward way to the distant range.  Here a mass of tinder, dry baked by weeks’ exposure to the burning sunshine, stood in a pyramid of firewood ready to burst in flame at first touch of the torch.  Close at hand were the stacks of reserve fuel.  “Never light this until you know the Indians are raiding west of the Christobal,” were his orders.  But well he knew that once ignited it could be seen for many a league.  Here again he filled his faithful pipe and, moving safe distance away, lighted its charge and tossed the match-stump among the jagged rocks below.  He saw the spark go sailing downward, unwafted from its course by faintest breath of air.  Then he heard Pike’s growl or something like it, and called to him to ask if he heard Jackson.  No answer.  Sure that he had heard the gruff, though inarticulate, voice of his comrade, he hailed again more loudly than before, and still there came no reply.  Surprised, he stepped quickly back around the rocky point to where the tents lay under the sheltering cliff, and came face to face with three dark, shadowy forms, whose moccasined footsteps gave no sound, whose masked and blackened faces defied recognition, whose cocked revolvers were thrust into his very face before a lariat settled over his shoulders, snapped into place, and, yelling for help when help was miles beyond range of his ringing voice, Sergeant Wing was jerked violently to earth, dragged into a tent, strapped to a cot, deftly gagged, and then left to himself.  An instant later the Picacho was lighted up with a lurid, unearthly glare; the huge column of sparks went whirling and hissing up on high, and, far and near, the great beacon was warning all seers that the fierce Apache was out in force and raiding the Yuma road.