Some one shouted. "Hello, the camp!" At the sound of that clear,
bell-like voice Morse lifted his head to listen better.

The constable answered the call.

Two riders came into the light. One was a girl, the other a slim,
straight young Indian in deerskin shirt and trousers. The girl swung
from the saddle and came forward to the camp-fire. The companion of
her ride shadowed her.

Beresford and his prisoner advanced from the darkness.

"Bully West's after you. He's sworn to kill you," the girl called to
the constable.

"How do you know?"

"Onistah heard him." She indicated with a wave of her hand the
lithe-limbed youth beside her. "Onistah was passing the stable--behind
it, back of the corral. This West was gathering a mob to follow
you--said he was going to hang you for destroying his whiskey."

"He is, eh?" Beresford's salient jaw set. His light blue eyes gleamed
hard and chill. He would see about that.

"They'll be here soon. This West was sure you'd camp here at Sweet
Water Creek, close to the ford." A note of excitement pulsed in the
girl's voice. "We heard 'em once behind us on the road. You'd better
hurry."