“It’s them, sir,” muttered the sergeant; “it’s that bloody gang, for there’s no stage due to-night, and if it was Harvey’s ambulance, recaptured, ’tis from the northeast it would be coming.”

“Mightn’t they have missed the trail in the darkness, and, having no ranch lights to guide them, got lost somewhere out there?”

“Not likely, sir; shure there’d be a squad of the troop and half a dozen old hands with ’em if it was Harvey’s.  This has come from the pass, and it won’t be long before they’ll be coming ahead.  You’ll need your carbine then.  Damn that man Mullan! can’t I wake him yet?”

Apparently not; even the well-directed kick only evoked a groan.  Taking a couple of carbines, Feeny returned to the major, silently handing him one of the weapons, saying, “It’s loaded, sir, and here’s more cartridges.”

Then again both men listened intently.

No sound now.  The hammering had ceased.  One—­two minutes they waited, then nearer at hand than before, clear, sharp, and distinct, out from the darkness came the unmistakable crack of a whip.  At the sound Feeny knelt.  Click, click went the hammer of his carbine to full cock.  Another moment of breathless silence.  Then the muffled sound of hoofs, the creak of wagon-springs, then a voice,—­

“It can’t be far away.  Ride ahead and see if you can’t rout somebody out.”

And then Feeny’s challenge again rang out on the still night air, followed instantly by muffled sound of stir and excitement in the ranch behind them.

“Who comes there?”

“Hello!  What’s that?  Who’s that?  Is that Moreno?”

“Who comes there, I say?  Halt! or I’ll fire.”

“For God’s sake don’t fire, man; we’ve got ladies here.”

“What ladies?  Who are you anyhow?  Quick!”

“George Harvey’s daughters, of Tucson.  I’m his son.”

“God be praised!” shouted Feeny, springing to his feet and rushing forward.  “Are they all safe?—­unharmed?  Where did you overtake them?”

“Overtake who?  What in blazes are you talking about?” queried a tall, slender fellow, bending down from his saddle.  “Who are you?”

“Sergeant Feeny, of the cavalry,—­and here’s the major just back of me.”

“Major who?”

“Major Plummer; him you was talking with this morning when you came for help,” answered Feeny, his voice tremulous with excitement.  Already he was beginning to see light.

“Why, I’ve never seen Major Plummer nor any other major to-day.  The only troops I met were Sergeant Wing and his guard at the pass just after nightfall.  Have you met the Apaches?  You saw the signal, of course.”

“Signal, yes, but devil an Apache.  Tell me now, wasn’t it you was here at Moreno’s this morning begging for troops to go and fetch your ladies down from the Gila?  Wasn’t it you sent the note saying they was run off by Indians?” And, as was the case whenever excited, Feeny’s grammar ran to seed.