that gave me the slip, was shot by Indians and I have made the rest of the way on foot.”
“Well, you are a hero!” was the admiring comment.
“Not by any means; any one could have done as well.”
The youth now looked more searchingly at the speaker, whose voice had a familiar sound. To his astonishment, he recognized him as Garret Chadwick, uncle of Ross Brandley. Alden at last had overtaken the other train, and would meet the combative youth for whom he had looked in vain throughout the past weeks.
The caller involuntarily glanced around. A dozen persons were in sight, most of them within the circle of light cast by the camp fire, while two or three were moving about a little farther off. Among them was none who resembled young Brandley.
Alden had not yet sat down, tired as he was. His wish to deliver the mail pressed upon him.
“Can you tell me how near I am to the station?” he asked of Mr. Chadwick.
“Almost within a stone’s throw; yonder it is.”
Looking in the direction he pointed, Alden saw the dull glow of light from the loopholes
