reveal to the fleeing outlaw that, only two or three miles back in the dim recesses of the crooked gorge, the blue-coats were following in hot pursuit.  Who could have dreamed that a band of Apaches, cut off from their native wilds by detachments from Bowie, Lowell, and Crittenden, and forced to make a wide detour to the southwest, had sought refuge in the very gorge of the Cababi whither Pasqual with all speed was urging his men?

“We rest when we reach the cave.”

Ah, even the torment of his wound could not have wrung from the robber chief this longed-for order had he dreamed what was coming at his back.

“How are the girls getting on?” he asked of his hot and wearied aide.  “Are they tranquil now?”

“They have to be,” was the grim reply.  “The little one dare not open her eyes, and Sanchez has his knife at the elder’s throat.”

And the sunrise had brought with it new inspiration,—­new purpose to those who came trotting to the rescue.  Just as the cliffs on the western side were tipped and fringed with rose and gold, Sergeant Lee, riding rapidly far ahead from point to point, always carefully peering around each bend before signalling “come on,” was seen suddenly to halt and throw himself from his horse.  The next instant he stood erect, waving some white object high in air.  Spurring forward, Drummond joined him.

“A lady’s handkerchief, lieutenant,” he quietly said.  “They seem to have halted here a moment:  you can tell by the hoof-prints.  One of their number rode over towards that high point yonder and rejoined them here.  I don’t believe they are more than half an hour ahead.”

Drummond reverently took the dainty kerchief, hurriedly searched for an initial or a name, and found the letters “R.  H.” in monogram in one corner.

“Push on, then, Lee!  Here, one more of you,—­you, Bennet, join the sergeant.  Look alive now, but do not let yourselves be seen from the front.”

Then as they hastened away he stowed the filmy trifle in the pocket of his blouse, and, drawing his Colt from the holster, closely inspected its loaded chambers.  Only a boy, barely twenty-three, yet rich in soldierly experience already was Drummond.  He had entered the Point when just seventeen.  His father’s death, occurring immediately before the memorable summer of their first class camp, had thrown him perforce into the society of the so-called bachelor club, and he was graduated in the June of the following year with a heart as whole as his physique was fine.  But there were some cares to cloud his young life in the army,—­a sister whose needs were many and whose means were few.  He found that rigid economy and self-denial were to be his portion from the start, and was not sorry that his assignment took him to the far-away land of Arizona, where, as his new captain wrote him, “you can live like a prince on bacon and frijoles, dress like a cow-boy on next to nothing or like an Apache in next to nothing, spend all your days and none of your money in mountain scouting, and come out of it all in two or three years rich in health and strength and experience and infinitely better off financially than you could ever have been anywhere else.  Leave whiskey and poker alone and you’re all right.”