WHAT HAPPENED TO WOLF EAR.  
Good fortune attended the daring attempt of Brinton Kingsland. By a providential occurrence, most of the hostiles were on the side of the supply camp, in the direction of the ridge from whose crest the signal smoke was ascending, when the youth, dexterously guiding his pony through the waggons that surrounded him, quickly cleared himself of all obstacles.
 
"Now, Jack, old boy, do your best! Never was there greater need of it."
 
The intelligent creature thrust his nose forward, and was off like a shot. He knew what was wanted, and nobly responded to the call upon his fleetness. The teamsters forgot all about the Indians, and fixed their gaze upon the youth.
 
He was fully a hundred yards from camp before the Sioux comprehended what was done. Then, when they saw the messenger dashing over the plain, fully a dozen of the best mounted were after him in a flash, discharging several of their guns at the moment of starting.
 
Brinton was seen to thunder up the incline of the first swell, sitting firmly in his saddle, and instantly disappeared over the crest. A minute later, the foremost two of the pursuers skimmed up the same incline, just as the lad shot into sight on the summit of the next elevation, instantly whisking out of view over that, while his superb horse continued his arrowy flight toward Wounded Knee. Then the excited and hopeful teamsters could see no more, and all but the foremost two of the pursuers gave up the chase and came straggling back to join their comrades in the attack on the camp. They knew that the result of that flight of the messenger would be to bring help, and, if anything was to be accomplished, it must be before it could arrive.
 
And so the attack on the camp was begun at once, and with a fierceness that speedily brought a crisis.
 
Meanwhile, Brinton Kingsland was going with undiminished speed over the prairie, skimming up the inclines and down the slopes at a break-neck pace, with every nerve of his splendid steed strained to the highest. The rider heard the dull report of the rifles that were fired at him, but the distance was too great to cause alarm, and he did not even hear the singing of the bullets, so wide went they of the mark; but the glance cast over his shoulder showed that he had only two pursuers to fear.
 
It was easy to compare their speed with his, and less than a half-mile was passed, when all doubt vanished. They had been thrown a hundred paces to the rear and were losing ground every minute.
 
At the instant of shooting up one of the slopes and disappearing over the crest, Brinton snatched off his cap and swung it over his head, with a joyous shout.
 
"Hurrah, Jack! they're not in it with you; you can take it more easily now."
 
Nevertheless, the speed of the pony was maintained for a brief while, until it became certain that his two pursuers had given up the attempt to overtake him, and had gone to wreak their fury on the imperilled teamsters before help could reach them. Then Brinton made Jack drop to a pace which he could continue for hours without fatigue. The youth knew the course to follow to reach the camp at Wounded Knee Creek, and he calculated that he could readily cover the ground in the course of an hour or so.
 
He was too sensible, however, to imagine that an open and uninterrupted course lay before him. At that time, as the reader well knows, the country in the neighbourhood of the Bad Lands, the reservations and the space between, was overrun with hostiles, as eager as so many jungle tigers to slay settlers, small squads of soldiers, and all white people whom it was safe to attack. He was liable to encounter some of these bands at any moment, and only by continual vigilance could he avoid running into the cunningly laid traps which proved fatal to scores of others.
 
Now that the burst of excitement was over, and he was riding at a less killing pace, his thoughts went back to the loved ones from whom he had been so strangely separated. His heart became as lead as he reflected that they could hardly have escaped, considering the condition of his father, from the environing perils which covered miles of territory in every direction.
 
"If I only knew where they were, if alive, I would guide this escort from Wounded Knee to their help——"
 
What was that? Surely he heard the report of guns from some point in advance. Jack pricked his ears and increased his pace.
 
"It can have but one meaning," muttered Brinton, with a throbbing heart; "someone is in peril: can it be they?"
 
He reined up his pony and stood still on the crest of the first elevation he reached, after the ominous sounds fell on his ears.
 
At that moment he descried coming over another ridge, a furlong away, a troop of thirty or forty cavalry, riding at a gallop toward him.
 
"That's the escort from Wounded Knee," was his instant conclusion; "I was right when I told Captain Wadsworth that Nick Jackson said the escort was on the way, though I wasn't certain of it."
 
But evidently the firing had not come from the cavalry. It was from some point between, and, instead of being directly in front, as it first seemed, was off to the right, where he observed a depression, with several dismounted Indians crouching around it.
 
"Great heavens! it's father fighting them off," he gasped; "he is in that hollow and they have attacked him!"
 
He struck his heels against the ribs of Jack, fiercely jerked the bridle-rein, and shouted to him to run at his best straight for the spot.
 
But the approaching cavalry had descried the same thing, and were nearer the hollow than was the youth. They turned the heads of the horses and struck off at full speed.
 
The assailing Indians, too, had discovered their danger and were seen skurrying for their ponies, waiting near. The obedient animals turned until their masters sprang upon their backs, when they dashed off at full speed, with a single exception. One of them, forgetful of his danger or determined upon revenge, even at the cost of his life, was observed to have something in his arms as he held his ground.
 
"It is Edith that he is about to slay; maybe he has already killed her! O heaven!" the brother groaned, "is it too late to save her?"
 
Jack was tearing over the ground at a killing pace, but he could not reach them in time. He could carry his rider there in time to shoot down the Indian, but not soon enough to prevent his burying his knife in the innocent heart.
 
But there was a wonderful sharpshooter among the cavalry. He saw the awful peril, and throwing his horse on his haunches, brought his gun to his shoulder.
 
During the instant it was at a level, Hugh Kingsland dashed out of the hollow, bare-headed, and, with hair streaming, ran toward the Indian and his little girl. One pace behind him sped his wife; she was seen to make quick, earnest gestures to the approaching horsemen, and they thought it an appeal to them not to lose a second if they would save her child.
 
At that instant the sharpshooter pressed the trigger of his weapon; the Indian dropped the little one, threw up his arms in an aimless way, staggered back and sank to the ground.
 
The next minute the troop thundered up, Brinton almost among them.
 
"Are you hurt, my darling Edith?" he called, leaping out of the saddle, catching her............