that may go with such a frenzy he felt that his pistols were loose; saw with satisfaction that he and his new ally were placed on the slope to the best advantage, then turned swiftly, eager now for the fight to come, toward the Indian band.  As he looked, suddenly in mid-career, pulling in their plunging ponies with a jerk that threw them, snorting, on their haunches, the warriors halted.  Miles watched in amazement.  The bunch of Indians, not more than a hundred yards away, were staring, arrested, startled, back of him to his right, where the lower ridge of Massacre Mountain stretched far and level over the valley that wound westward beneath it on the road to Fort Rain-and-Thunder.  As he gazed, the ponies had swept about and were galloping back as they had come, across the plain.

Before he knew if it might be true, if he were not dreaming this curious thing, the clear voice of his companion spoke in one word again, like the single note of a deep bell.  “Look!” he said, and Miles swung about toward the ridge behind, following the pointing finger.

In the gray dawn the hill-top was clad with the still strength of an army.  Regiment after regiment, silent, motionless, it stretched back into silver mist, and the mist rolled beyond, above, about it; and through it he saw, as through rifts in broken gauze, lines interminable of soldiers, glitter of steel.  Miles, looking, knew.

He never remembered how long he stood gazing, earth and time and self forgotten, at a sight not meant for mortal eyes; but suddenly, with a stab it came to him, that if the hosts of heaven fought his battle it was that he might do his duty, might save Captain Thornton and his men; he turned to speak to the young man who had been with him.  There was no one there.  Over the bushes the mountain breeze blew damp and cold; they rustled softly under its touch; his horse stared at him mildly; away off at the foot-hills he could see the diminishing dots of the fleeing Indian ponies; as he wheeled again and looked, the hills that had been covered with the glory of heavenly armies, lay hushed and empty.  And his friend was gone.

Clatter of steel, jingle of harness, an order ringing out far but clear—­Miles threw up his head sharply and listened.  In a second he was pulling at his horse’s girth, slipping the bit swiftly into its mouth—­in a moment more he was off:  and away to meet them, as a body of cavalry swung out of the valley where the ridge had hidden them.

“Captain Thornton’s troop?” the officer repeated carelessly.  “Why, yes; they are here with us.  We picked them up yesterday, headed straight for Black Wolf’s war-path.  Mighty lucky we found them.  How about you—­seen any Indians, have you?”

Miles answered slowly:  “A party of eight were on my trail; they were riding for Massacre Mountain, where I camped, about an hour—­ about half an hour—­awhile ago.”  He spoke vaguely, rather oddly, the officer thought.  “Something—­stopped them about a hundred yards from the mountain.  They turned, and rode away.”