Removing his shoes, the sergeant, with my assistance, raised two big stones to his breast, and stood in the doorway with them clasped firmly in his arms.  I took the revolvers in my hands, whispered the word, and he started out at a rapid walk, setting his feet down carefully and without noise.  He dropped the stones, one before the other, without attracting attention, and regained the cabin without a shot being fired on either side.

Now it was my turn, and I went beyond the place where he had dropped his last stone.

At that instant an alarm was shouted from the distant wood, and an Indian raised his head above the log and fired.  The bullet struck the falling rock, and sent a shower of stinging splinters into my face.  I turned and fled.

With the discharge of the Indian’s rifle Sergeant Cunningham and Corporal Frank opened a rapid fusillade with the revolvers, which successfully covered my retreat to the cabin; but we knew that our last chance at stone-dropping was past.

Several terribly long hours had crept past since we saw Vic turn the butte on her errand to the valleys.  Judging by the time it had taken the Navajos to bore a tunnel under their log and undermine the first trigging-stone, we estimated that two more hours must pass before the four obstructions we had placed in their way could be removed, unless they took some more speedy method.

It was quite nine miles to camp, and the dog could easily reach it in about an hour.  If she had arrived, help should by this time be fairly on the way; but if she had been killed by the besiegers before she reached the north end of the butte, or had been torn in pieces by the wolves!

Should the log once reach our door, we could not hope to do more than make the price of our lives dear to the enemy.

While the sergeant and I stood at the door and window, speculating in no very hopeful vein over these probabilities, there came a scratch at the eastern door.  Frank was at the window on that side, and, startled by the sound, he called to us, “I’m afraid an Indian has sneaked up on us, sir.”

Again the scratching was heard, this time accompanied by a familiar whine, which presently swelled into a low bark.

“Oh, Mr. Duncan, it’s Vic!  It’s Vic!” shouted the boy, and, springing to the door, he flung it wide open.

In trotted Vic, and, coming up to me, she dropped a stick at my feet bearing the words:  “In the collar, as before.”

It took some little time for Corporal Frank to secure the messenger.  She capered about the room, licked our hands and faces, jumped up to the noses of the ponies, and behaved as if she was conscious of having performed a great feat and was overjoyed to have returned safely.

But Vic surrendered to the boy at last, and, submitting her neck for inspection, he found attached to her collar a letter which read as follows: 

     “Camp at los Valles Grandes.