“Oh, don’t let him go, Fan; don’t let him try to ride!”

And turning suddenly at the sound, Mr. Drummond found Ruth Harvey standing close behind her sister, her eyes suffused, her cheeks blushing red.  It was the first time he had seen her to speak to since they landed at the old wharf at San Francisco a year gone by, and for the moment he forgot the safe, the funds, the crippled arm, the bandaged head, and every other item that should have occupied his thoughts.

“Why, Ruthie, is this you?  How you have grown!”

And then the imprisoned hand was released only to be transferred to the clasp and keeping of another.  In her fear that her knight, her soldier, would leave them, and, wounded though he was, insist on attempting to follow his men in their pursuit, the shyness of maidenhood was forgotten.  Ruth had seized and clasped the long, brown fingers, and Drummond forgot for the moment all thought of quitting her presence for the field.

And then having—­as she supposed—­won her point, and having caught the new light in his admiring eyes, it became necessary to struggle for the release of the hand she had so unhesitatingly used to detain him.  This might have proved a difficult matter, judging from the expression in Drummond’s face, but for a sudden hail from Patterson.

“Can the lieutenant come up here a moment?  There’s something going on down there I can’t understand.”

Old Moreno, whose bonds could not restrain his shifting, glittering eyes, glanced quickly upward.  Then, as he caught a menacing look in the sunburned face of the Irish trooper Walsh, he became as suddenly oblivious to all earthly matters beyond the pale of his own physical woes.  And now it was Ruth’s hand that would retain its clasp and Drummond’s that was again struggling for release.  In a moment the lieutenant stood under Patterson’s perch.

“What did you see?  What was it like?  How far away?”

“Six or seven miles, sir.  The valley is broad and open, and three of our fellows were riding slowly back on the west side, while Wing was galloping as though to meet them, and when they weren’t more than a mile apart Wing’s horse went down,—­looks no bigger than a black speck,—­and the other three sheered off away from the rocks on this side and seemed to be scattering apart.”

The words were low spoken so as to reach only his ear.  Now it was no easy scramble for a man in Drummond’s condition to make, but it took him only a little time to clamber to Patterson’s side.

“There’s something back of all this, and you know it, Patterson.  What Apache sign have you seen?”

“Smoke, sir, on both sides.  But we agreed, the sergeant and I, that the young ladies mustn’t be alarmed nor you aroused.  Then he rode away to hurry in any of our fellows who were in sight and warn them to keep out from the rocks.  What I’m afraid of is that they’ve been ambushed, or at least that the Indians have ambushed him.  His horse is down, and those others you see are away out on the plain now.  They’re working around towards the horse as though he were lying behind it, and they appear to be firing mounted.”