“Yonder are the varmints!”
The horses were in excellent condition because of their long rest, and up to this moment moved at a moderate trot. As the Texan spoke, the trapper, who had detected the danger, struck his animal into a brisk gallop, the others doing the same without any urging of their riders.
The Apaches must have relaxed their vigilance toward the latter part of the night, for most, if not all the group, were observed to the south of the structure instead of being near it. They were closer to it, however, than the whites, and showed their daring by immediately riding forward to meet them.
The trapper turned his head and said: “Let ‘em have it the minute they’re near enough to hit.”
These were words which had meaning, and Herbert, like his companions, looked at his Winchester to make sure it was ready for instant service.
“I think they’re all there,” added Lattin.
“I don’t believe it,” remarked Strubell, “for there isn’t more than six or eight.”
“And Nick isn’t with them,” Herbert could not help exclaiming, with a thrill of pleasure.
No reply followed this, which might signify nothing, for all were too intent on what was before them.
The interest deepened each moment. The Apaches, numbering exactly eight, were advancing at a speed fully as great as that of the whites, riding close together and apparently all eagerness for the conflict. They indulged in no shouts, whoops, or gestures, but came on like the grim demons they were.