Chapter I

"Call Me Jimmie-Go-Get-'Em"


The boy had spent the night at a water-hole in a little draw near the
foot of the mesa. He had supped on cold rations and slept in his blanket
without the comfort of glowing piñon knots. For yesterday he had cut
Indian signs and after dark had seen the shadow of Apache camp-fires
reflected in the clouds.

After eating he swung to the bare back of his pony and climbed to the
summit of the butte. His trained eyes searched the plains. A big bunch of
antelope was trailing down to water almost within rifle-shot. But he was
not looking for game.

He sniffed the smoke from the pits where the renegades were roasting
mescal and judged the distance to the Apache camp at close to ten miles.
His gaze swept toward the sunrise horizon and rested upon a cloud of
dust. That probably meant a big herd of cattle crossing to the Pecos
Valley on the Chisum Trail that led to Fort Stanton. The riders were
likely just throwing the beeves from the bed-ground to the trail. The boy
waited to make sure of their line of travel.

Presently he spoke aloud, after the fashion of the plainsman who spends
much time alone in the saddle. "Looks like they'll throw off to-night