over the rim of the hollow, but he desisted from the useless
slaughter of horses alone, knowing that he could be attacked only
on foot, and that every one of his slender store of cartridges
must find a human mark if he would return to the States alive.
"They've got to put me out of business before they can go on," he
ruminated. "An Apache is a good deal of a coward when he's
fighting for pleasure, but just corner him, and, great snakes and
spittin' wildcats, what a game he does put up! I must save my
cartridges; for one thing's sure, they won't waste any of theirs.
They're not as good shots as white men, for ammunition is too
scarce with them for use in gun practise; so they won't fire till
they've got me dead to rights. Let me see; there's about a dozen
left in the party, and I have fifteen cartridges--that's three in
reserve for my own outfit, if some of the others fail to get
their men. Those red devils enjoy skinning an animal alive as
much as torturing a man, and you can bet they won't save me any
bullets by shooting Nance and Jinny."

Reasoning that the Indians would not dare to attack by way of the
open trail in front, and that it would take some time for them to
make the detour necessary to approach him from above, since they
would have to leave their ponies below and climb on hands and
knees over jutting ledges and around broken granite blocks, Lane
coolly proceeded to drink his coffee, and eat his lunch of hard
bread and cold bacon-rind. After he had finished, he gave a lump
of sugar to each of his animals, and pressed his cheek with an
affectionate hug against the side of his horse's head.

"Old girl," he said. "I'm sorry we can't take a parting drink,
for I'm afraid neither of us will reach our next water-hole. But