“If there are no more,” he thought, “it begins to look as if I might succeed after all.”
But his rejoicing was premature. Not only did he catch the sound of a horse’s hoofs, but 68 they were directly before him, and coming as straight for the spot where he was crouching as if the animal were following a mathematical line.
One of the Comanches was riding through the mesquite bush, and if the youth stayed where he was he must be trampled by the mustang, unless the animal was frightened into leaping aside and thus betraying him to his master.
“Very well,” muttered Avon, “if it comes to that, I know how to manage you.”
As the thought passed through his mind, he reached to his holster and drew his revolver.
At this moment the steed halted, though he gave no sniff or sign that he had learned of the stranger so close in front. Believing a collision inevitable, Avon straightened up, with his weapon firmly grasped.
But before he could use it the rider slipped to the ground, and the next moment drew a match along the side of his leggings. As the tiny flame shone out in the gloom, he held it up in front of his face to light the cigarette between his lips.