“Clear back to the foothills,” guessedStretch, “as well as clear across to Sun Dog Mesa. But you ain’tabout to climb up there rightaway, are you?”
“No,” frowned Larry. “Not much chanceGayatero would send out a war-party before sun-up. Apaches don’twork that way.”
“Bueno,” grunted Stretch. “So we get toeat, and catch up on our shut-eye.” He off-saddled and hobbled thehorses and dug provisions from his saddlebag.
It wasn’t the first time they had dined onsuch humble fare—a couple of cans of cold beans, a chunk ofalmost-stale bread, a few pieces of jerky. Stretch complained, butnot bitterly. They made the most of it and tried to forget thattheir bankroll, snug in Larry’s hip pocket, amounted to a usefulthree thousand dollars. With such a sum at their disposal, theycould have been dining first-class in some expensive Bosworthrestaurant.
With the dawn, all parties destined to beinvolved in the day’s grim drama were astir and beginning theirpreparations. The Texans weren’t about to risk detection bylighting a fire for hot coffee. However, they had no aversion tohard liquor before noon; they didn’t hesitate to fortify themselveswith hefty slugs from the bottle from Larry’s saddlebag. After thisearly morning libation, Larry slung his field-glasses crosswisefrom his left shoulder, advanced to the pine and began his climb toits lofty heights. Stretch remained in the clearing with thehorses.
At the Sun Dog Mesa reservation, Mochitaand two braves of his choice lithely mounted their ponies and rodeto the east lip of the mesa.
Simultaneously, Rube Sunday and Arnie Elliswere riding down the mountain track to the foothills of the SantaRosas, intending to stake out in the arroyo well in advance of theappointed time.
And, in a Bosworth livery stable, thesaturnine, uncommunicative Webb Collier had completed negotiatingthe hiring of a clean-limbed bay; the proprietor had saddled theanimal and accepted payment, and Collier was swinging astride. Ason previous occasions, he quit town quietly, determined to avoid,at all costs, the early patrols from Camp Stone.
In the matter of a vantage point, Larrydecided that he had chosen well. The upper section of the giantpine swayed slightly in the morning wind, but he was secure on hisperch, straddling a bough thick enough to support his weight, withhis back braced against the trunk. He used his glasses to goodadvantage and paid himself a compliment. This was the ideallookout-post. From up here, he commanded a sweeping view of theeastern approaches to the mesa. Also by twisting slightly andswinging his binoculars to the north, he could check the timber andthe foothills south of the Santa Rosas.
The first horseman appeared almost twohours after Larry had taken up his position—two of them,approaching from the direction of the foothills. They toted riflescrosswise and their garb was shabby—and familiar. He adjusted hisglasses and studied the duo with more than casual interest. As theydrew closer, he was able to confirm his identification. Rube Sundayand friend—the same jasper knocked over the hitch rail outside thegeneral store during the hassle of two days ago.
He knew a few moments of apprehension, whenthe riders seemed to be steering a direct course for the mesquite.And then he noticed the track that had escaped his attention lastnight, a dimly-defined horse trail that skirted the brush. Sundayand his pard were following that trail. They passed beneath thepine, veered leftward and moved around the clump, pressing onwardto the south.
Following their progress, Larry saw themtrading waves with a lone rider approaching from the generaldirection of the county seat. Again, he brought his glasses intocloser focus, this time to establish that the third man was WebbCollier. Collier was first to reach the arroyo. He put his mount toits south slope and, in a matter of moments, was lost to Larry’sview. Sunday and Ellis performed a similar disappearing trick ashort time later.
Larry waited patiently, moving his glassesto cover the entire area, wondering if more riders would convergeon that lonely arroyo so far from the regions patrolled by the menof the 9th. He waited another quarter-hour, before spotting thethree riders advancing from the west. His heart leapt. Apaches!
On the floor of the arroyo, Collier stoodbeside his horse, puffing at a cigar and keeping his gaze directedto the west. Sunday and Ellis were out of sight, huddled behind acluster of boulders some twelve yards to Collier’s right. Theirprecautions amused him. Within a very short time, he would havecause to thank them. But. not at this moment. Right now, he feltsupremely confident.
He summoned up a bland grin of greeting,when the redmen appeared, moving into the arroyo from its west end.They came on slowly and steadily, led by Gayatero’s grimfaced son,and it didn’t occur to Collier to wonder why Mochita had broughtcompany.
The braves reined up. To Collier’sastonishment, Mochita greeted him by calling him a name. Severalnames.
“White coyote! Traitor with split tongue!Liar ...!”
“Hold on now, Mochita,” Collier protested.“We’re supposed to parley—not trade insults. What the hell iseating at you?”
“No parley!” snarled Mochita. He pointed toCollier’s hired horse. “You ride with us—now.”
“Where to?” demanded Collier.
“You are prisoner of the Apaches,”muttered Mochita. “Outside the lodge of my father, the great chief,you will suffer punishment ...!”
“White eyes tried to trick Apaches,” jeeredone of the other braves.
“Trick?” challenged Collier. “What trick?What the devil are you talking about?”
“No more talk,” breathed Mochita. Again, hepointed to the bay. “You come now.”
“Like hell I will,” growled Collier.
“Like hell he will!” called Sunday.
The braves suddenly froze. Only their eyesmoved, slanting toward the rocks. Sunday and Ellis were on theirfeet, covering Collier’s challengers with their rifles.
“It’s up to you, Mochita,” grinned Sunday.“Drop your muskets and stay alive. Do it fast or—so help me...!”
“Mochita,” frowned Collier, “you’d better doas he says.”
The braves let their weapons drop. Ellishustled forward and gathered them up. Unhurriedly, Collier emptiedhis shoulder-holster. He didn’t aim the short-barreled Colt atMochita, but there was anger in his eyes and, for a few tensemoments, the chief’s son was well and truly intimidated.
“Lucky we was here to back your play, huh,Webb?” prodded Sunday.
“So it would
