"Hold on yere, boy!" yelled Lumley. "This yere is some blame joke.

These fellers is Bill McNeil's gang."

"By thunder! if it ain't Pete Lumley," ejaculated the other. "Whut did

ye hit me fer, ye long-legged minin' jackass?"

The explanation was never uttered. Out from the surrounding gloom of

underbrush a hatless, dishevelled individual on foot suddenly dashed

into the centre of that hesitating ring of horsemen. With skilful

twist of his foot he sent a dismounted road-agent spinning over

backward, and managed to wrench a revolver from his hand. There was a

blaze of red flame, a cloud of smoke, six sharp reports, and a wild

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stampede of frantic horsemen.

Then the Reverend Howard Wynkoop flung the empty gun disdainfully down

into the dirt, stepped directly across the motionless outstretched

body, and knelt humbly beside a slender, white-robed figure lying close

against the fringe of bushes. Tenderly he lifted the fair head to his

throbbing bosom, and gazed directly down into the white, unconscious

face. Even as he looked her eyes unclosed, her body trembling within

his arms.

"Have no fear," he implored, reading terror in the expression of her

face. "Miss Spencer--Phoebe--it is only I, Mr. Wynkoop."

"You! Have those awful creatures gone?"

"Yes, yes; be calm, I beg you. There is no longer the slightest

danger. I am here to protect you with my life if need be."

"Oh, Howard--Mr. Wynkoop--it is all so strange, so bewildering; my

nerves are so shattered! But it has taught me a great, great lesson.

How could I have ever been so blind? I thought Mr. Moffat and Mr.

McNeil were such heroes, and yet now in this hour of desperate peril it

was you who flew gallantly to my rescue! It is you who are the true

Western knight!"

And Mr. Wynkoop gazed down into those grateful eyes, and modestly

confessed it true.




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