gave a single thought to the recapture of the safe.  So far as he could judge the forces were about equally matched.  Some saddle-horses led along after the wagons seemed to indicate that their usual riders were, perhaps, with others of the band, resting in the wagons themselves.  Surprise now was out of the question.  He would marshal his men behind the low ridge on which he lay, form line, then move forward at the lope.  No matter how noiseless might be the advance, or how wearied or absorbed their quarry, some one in the outlaw gang would surely see them long before they could come within close range.  Then he felt sure that a portion at least would stampede for the hills, and that he would not have to fight more than ten or a dozen.  His plan was at all hazards to cut out, recapture, and hold Harvey’s wagon.  That, first of all; then, if possible, the others.

And now the time had come.  In eager but suppressed excitement Meinecke and the men came trotting up the slope.

“Halt!” signalled Drummond; then “Forward into line,” and presently the lieutenant stood looking into the sun-tanned faces of less than twenty veteran troopers, four sets of fours with two sergeants, dusty and devil-may-care, with horses jaded, yet sniffing mischief ahead and pricking up their ears in excitement.  Drummond had been the troop leader in scout after scout and in several lively skirmishes during the year gone by.  There was not one of his troopers whom he could not swear by, thought he, but then the recollection of Bland’s treachery brought his teeth together with vengeful force.  He found his voice a trifle tremulous as he spoke, but his words had the brave ring the men had learned to look for, and every one listened with bated breath.

“Our work’s cut out for us here.  Not more than a mile ahead now is just the worst band of scoundrels in all the West, and in their midst George Harvey’s daughters.  You all know him by reputation.  They are in the white-topped wagon, and that is the one we must and shall have.  Don’t charge till I give the word.  Don’t waste a shot.  Some of them will scatter.  Let them go!  What we want is their captives.”  With that he swung quickly into saddle.

“Ready now?  No! don’t draw pistol till you’re close in on them, and no carbines at all this time.  All right.  Now—­steady.—­Keep your alignment.  Take the pace from me.  Forward!”

Up the gentle slope they rode, straining their eyes for the first sight of the hunted quarry, opening out instinctively from the centre so that each trooper might have fighting space.  No squares of disciplined infantry, no opposing squadrons, no fire-flashing lines were to be met and overthrown by compact and instantaneous shock.  It was to be a melee, as each trooper well knew, in which, though obedient to the general plan of their leader, the little detachment would be hurled forward at the signal “Charge,” and then it would be practically a case of “every man for himself.”