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 Almayne, his eyes like blue embers, flung up his hand in a gesture commanding silence. For a few moments they waited, breathless and rigid; then from far behind and below came a long whoop, tremulous, musical, indescribably ominous.

Almayne swore huskily.

"I winged him," he growled, "but he gave the signal and they heard it. They were closer behind us than I thought. We must ride for it now."

Jolie touched Lachlan's arm.

"What has happened?" she asked.

"Almayne saw a Cherokee scout and weunded him," Lachlan told her quickly. "He must have come through the woods, while the others followed the buffalo path. They heard his signal and they are coming. We must strike for the old trading road and make a dash for the river ford above Fort Prince George."

Already Almayne's pony was crashing through the underbrush as his rider urged—him up the slope. Lachlan leaned over and pressed his lips against Jolie's forehead. For an instant she clung te him. Then she bent forward over Selu's neck as he plunged through the thicket in the path that Almayne had broken. As her slim form straightened, Lachlan saw her sweep her hand across her eyes; but when she turned and looked back, she was smiling, and her eyes were bright, and his heart leaped at the spectacle of her beauty and her courage.