that no spirals of smoke were visible puzzled the Sergeant, for in that
frosty air they should naturally be perceived for a considerable
distance. Possibly, however, the bluffs were higher and more abrupt,
farther up stream, affording better chances of concealment. Indeed it
was quite probable that the Indians would seek the most sheltered spot
available for their winter camp, irrespective of any possible fear of
attack. Reasonably safe from a winter campaign, the atrocities of the
past summer would naturally tend to make them unusually cautious and
watchful.

Molly, muffled to the eyes in her thick blanket, permitted her pony to
follow the other without guidance, until they both dipped down into the
hollow, safe from any possible observation. In some mysterious way the
overpowering feeling of terror which had controlled her for days past
had departed. The mere presence of Hamlin was an assurance of safety.
As she watched him, erect in saddle, his blue overcoat tightly
buttoned, his revolver belt strapped outside, she no longer felt any
consciousness of the surrounding desolation, or the nearness of savage
foes. Her heart beat fast and her cheeks flushed in memory of what had
so swiftly occurred between them. Without thought, or struggle, she
gave herself unreservedly to his guidance, serenely confident in his
power to succeed. He was a man so strong, so resourceful, so fitted to
the environment, that her trust in him was unquestioned. She needed to
ask nothing; was content to follow in silence. Even as she realized
the completeness of her surrender, the Sergeant, relaxing none of his
watchfulness, checked his pony so that they could ride onward side by
side.

"We will follow the trail back," he explained, glancing aside at her
face. "It is easier to follow than to strike out for ourselves across