Just as the sun was sinking over the western ridge of the Chevenine Hills, the party drew rein and slowly approached the Apache Gorge. While yet some distance, Fred Wainwright had dismounted, and entering the wood cautiously, made his way to the dangerous spot, to reconnoitre, and to see that no ambush threatened. Discovering nothing to excite alarm, he appeared on a high rock, and waved his hand as a signal that all was right. A few minutes later the horses thundered underneath the thick trees and vegetation that wrapped the hills from peak to base, and the wearied riders dismounted to rest and refresh themselves.
All were wearied and dusty, yet the guide said,
“It won’t do to stay here; there’s a good camping ground farther in.”
He led the way for a quarter of a mile in a westerly direction, where they found a stream of icy cold water which issued from the mountain side, and an abundance of rich rank grass. Here their animals were tethered, and Lancaster told the men that they might lunch and rest themselves, while he and Fred Wainwright would return to the Gorge and keep watch for the Apaches. The cool shadow and the soft grass were so welcome that the remainder of the party immediately stretched themselves out upon the ground to enjoy the luxury of that perfect rest, when it succeeds perfect exhaustion and weariness.
Reaching the Gorge the two hunters clambered up among the hills, until they were elevated several hundred feet above the plain and had a view of the surrounding country for many miles. It was yet very light, and nothing obstructed their view except the horizon itself.
When they had reached an available spot, Fred Wainwright turned his head, looked one moment toward the north and uttered the thrilling words,
“Yonder they come!”
The trapper squinted his eyes for a moment, looked long and searchingly, and then replied as cooly as if he had asked for a chew of tobacco.
“You’re right, that’s Charouka and his Apaches, sartin!”
Off to the north-east, precisely in the direction indicated by the guide, a party of a half a dozen horsemen were seen approaching at a sweeping gallop. To the ordinary eye they were a half a dozen horsemen and nothing more; but the keen vision of the trapper of the Gila saw among them the object of their search. Florence Brandon held in front of an Apache Indian, who was no other than the famed Charouka.