Both looked about them in a scared, inquiring way, but could see nothing
of their unknown friend or enemy, as the case might be.

"I tell you, Mickey, that it makes me feel as if we ought to get out of
here."

"Ye're right, and we'll just swally some of this stuff, and then we'll
'light out."

He tossed the lad a goodly-sized piece of meat, which, if anything, was
overdone. Both ate more rapidly than was consistent with hygiene, their
eyes continually wandering over the rocks and heights around them, in
quest of their seemingly ever-present enemies, the Apaches. It required
but a few moments for them to, complete their dinner. Mickey, in
accordance with his custom, carefully folded up what was left, and, taking
a drink from the stream which ran near at hand, they sprang upon the backs
of their mustangs, and headed westward in the direction of New Boston,
provided such a settlement was still in existence by the grace of Lone
Wolf, leader of the Apaches.

"Now," said Mickey, whose spirits seemed to rise when he found himself
astride of his trusty mustang again, "if we don't have any bad luck, we
ought to be out of the mountains by dark."

"And after that?"

"Then a good long ride across the prairie, and we'll be back again wid the
folks."