It was the camp-fire of some prairie pioneer making for a new settlement in the North; and beside it was a tent whose owner was absent in Askatoon.
Orlando dug heels into his horse and rode for the point from which the cry for help had come.

Something was undoubtedly wrong.

The voice was that of one in real trouble--a hoarse, strangled sort of voice.
As he galloped through the light of the camp-fire, a pistol-shot rang out, and he felt a sharp, stinging pain in his side.

Still urging his horse, he cleared the little circle of light and presently saw a man rapidly mounting a horse, while two others struggled on the ground.
He dashed forward.

As he did so, one of the men on the ground freed himself, sprang to his feet, mounted his horse, and was away into the night with his companion.