Dick and his party were billeted a few doors beyond the mission school in two houses, built of logs—warm and comfortable quarters. They found plenty to occupy their attention for the remainder of the day. They assisted Dr. Brady, gathered wood, delivered the mail, and in many other ways made themselves helpful and useful.

The trouble which the priest, Father Bleriot had spoken of—the impending danger of attack, the fear from the Indians in the hostile villages, not far from the mission—did not seem very imminent to them just then. But as night drew on and the villagers locked and bolted their doors and native sentinels commenced to patrol the streets, rifles in hand, the thing began to take on a different aspect.
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Nearly every night, so they were informed, some depredation had been committed. A home was broken into and looted, a cabin fired, or a bullet sent crashing through one of the many darkened windows. Every morning the sentries, who seemed powerless to prevent it, reported the night’s happenings to one of the three priests, then went away with sorrowful, wagging heads, only to repeat the same performance twenty-four hours later.

Hearing of these things, the three boys and one of the Indian drivers decided to stay up that night to keep the sentinels company. Dick and the driver took up a position at the south end of the village, while Sandy and Toma patrolled the northern section, in the vicinity of the billet.

The first part of the night, from eight o’clock until midnight, passed without incident. Shortly before one, Dick and an Indian sentry entered the latter’s home for a cup of tea and a bite to eat before resuming their lonely vigil. Scarcely had they seated themselves around the rough board table, when the crash of a rifle brought them to their feet. They stormed outside, looking away in the direction from which the sound had come.

The bright moonlight revealed nothing at first, but presently, less than a block away, they perceived an angry red glare and a black funnel of smoke ascending from one of the cabins.
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Outside in the snow were the shivering forms of women and children, while here and there, householders rushed frantically about attempting to put out the blaze. The incendiaries had escaped. It galled Dick to realize that they had crept up right under his nose unobserved. The shot they had heard, he soon learned, had not been fired by the invaders at all, but by one of the occupants of the burning cabin in an effort to bring help.

The cabin was doomed. Efforts to save it proved futile. The native sentry took the women and children in tow and conducted them along the street to the shelter of other cabins. Slowly, resentfully, the, crowd dispersed. The sentry returned, accompanied by Sandy and Toma and the dog driver. Together they repaired to the sentry’s home, where in gloomy silence they drank their delayed cup of tea and ate the hot biscuit their host set before them.

“You fellows’d better go back now,” said Dick finally, rising to his feet. “Nothing else may happen tonight, but it’s wise to be on our guard.”

Sandy grinned as he pushed his empty cup back from the edge of the table.

“I don’t want to rub it in, Dick,” he remarked, “but that was a good joke on you. The cabin that is burning down isn’t more than a block from here. Whoever set fire to it must have slipped right past you. What were you doing, Dick?”

Dick flushed, but did not reply.

“Didn’t you see anyone?” persisted Sandy.
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“No. They caught us napping all right. But be mighty sure, Sandy, that they don’t come in on your side before the night’s over. Well, good luck to you. I’ll be along before daybreak.”

Sandy and Toma departed, and again Dick and his two companions took up their lonely patrol. This time, however, at Dick’s suggestion, they separated, each having under his surveillance a certain definite section of the village. Up and down, forth and back, through that cold and stilly night, their moccasined feet beat across the snow.

Then, suddenly, for the second time that night, a shot rang out. There came the sound of crashing glass and a woman’s startled scream.

It had all happened right in Dick’s beat, scarcely fifty yards away. Instantly he was alert and ready. This time instead of rushing away toward the cabin which had been fired on he cut obliquely across the street in the direction the invader would have taken in making his get-away. He fairly flew across the snow, dodged between two low buildings and came out on the farther side, panting for breath.

In the path of moonlight in the cleared space ahead, he saw a fleeting form, and, without even pausing for breath, started forward in swift pursuit.
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Dick was a fast runner, as he had proved to his satisfaction many times before. In the present instance, he put all his heart and strength in the race. He exerted every ounce of energy. But if he was fleet of foot, excelling in this particular line of physical endeavor, so was his opponent. Try as he would, Dick seemed unable to gain upon him. Between buildings, across fields, over a narrow footbridge that crossed a brook, then along a trail that threaded its way south from the village, the two forms flew.

After a time Dick began to gain slowly upon his quarry. Foot at a time, he drew closer. He saw the Indian, tall and lithe like himself, cast one worried glance over his shoulder, see that he was being overtaken, then hurl his rifle to the snow, free from which encumbrance, he quickly regained his former advantage.

Somewhat reluctantly, Dick followed suit. He still carried his revolver at his belt. He puffed as he ran. The blood throbbed in his ears. The continued exertion had begun to tell. On and on he raced, slowly shortening the distance that separated them. Thirty yards! Twenty yards! He was only a rod or two behind him now, gaining at every leap. But with every leap his heart felt as if it would burst within his body. Finally, in despair, he had commenced to slacken his pace, when he saw the runner ahead stumble over some obstruction in the path and fall heavily.

Whe............