leader, a short, squat chief, plunged into the brake not twenty
yards from the hidden men. Jones recognized the cream mustang; he
knew the somber, sinister, broad face. It belonged to the Red
Chief of the Apaches.

"Geronimo!" murmured the plainsman through his teeth.

Well for the Apache that no falcon savage eye discovered aught
strange in the little hollow! One look at the sand of the stream
bed would have cost him his life. But the Indians crossed the
thicket too far up; they cantered up the slope and disappeared.
The hoof-beats softened and ceased.

"Gone?" whispered Rude.

"Gone. But wait," whispered Jones. He knew the savage nature, and
he knew how to wait. After a long time, he cautiously crawled out
of the thicket and searched the surroundings with a plainsman's
eye. He climbed the slope and saw the clouds of dust, the near
one small, the far one large, which told him all he needed to
know.

"Comanches?" queried Adams, with a quaver in his voice. He was
new to the plains.

"Likely," said Jones, who thought it best not to tell all he
knew. Then he added to himself: "We've no time to lose. There's
water back here somewhere. The Indians have spotted the buffalo,
and were running the horses away from the water."