half-naked, paint-smeared Mooseheads. Even as those on the hilltop looked, the savages, rifles in hand, slipped noiselessly into the shelter of another rock and shortened their range on the climbing scout by five yards. As Connie drew back the hammer of his carbine, he noted the scowling faces

and the ugly, painted bodies—noted, too, the swift, gliding movements that would carry them within easy range long before Ick Far could possibly gain the top of the ridge. There was a soft movement beside him, and two muffled "clicks" told him that the prospectors also had cocked their rifles.

"Wait," whispered the boy, "don't shoot till you have to. I'm going to give them a chance to surrender." He stood upright, carbine in hand