Another dawn and Stout and most of his men had pushed on after the
Apaches and in quest of the troop at Sunset Pass. By short stages the
soldiers left in charge were to move the wounded homeward. By noon
these latter were halted under the willows by a little stream. The
guards were busy filling canteens and watering pack mules, when the
single sentry threw his rifle to the position of "ready" and the gun
lock clicked loud. Over the stony ridge to the west, full a thousand
yards away, came a little band of riders in single file, four men in
all. Wren was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. Blakely, feverish and
excited, was wide awake. Mercifully the former never heard the first
question asked by the leading rider--Arnold, the ranchman--as he came
jogging into the noonday bivouac. Stone, sergeant commanding, had run
forward to meet and acquaint him with the condition of the rescued
men. "Got there in time then, thank God!" he cried, as wearily he
flung himself out of saddle and glanced quickly about him. There lay
Wren, senseless and still between the lashed ribs of his litter. There
lay Blakely, smiling feebly and striving to hold forth a wasted hand,
but Arnold saw it not. Swiftly his eyes flitted from face to face,
from man to man, then searched the little knot of mules, sidelined and
nibbling at the stunted herbage in the glen. "I don't see Punch," he
faltered. "Wh-where's Miss Angela?"