He strained his eyes toward the point where he knew his cabin stood, and which must rise to view before going a half mile further. If the Apaches were there, the first sign to catch his eye would be the smoke from his burning home; the next the lifeless bodies of his wife and children, and no man ever prayed more fervently than he that the sight might be spared to him.
But if the hostiles were in the neighborhood, he did not forget that he himself was riding into imminent and increasing peril. Those Apaches have more than once ambushed a wagon train, in the middle of a sandy plain, devoid of every tree, rock and blade of grass. The searching glances which he cast to the right and left, as he sped along, might flit over the very spot where the warriors were crouching and waiting for him to come a little nearer before opening their deadly fire.
But he could not afford to wait or follow a more circuitous course: his anxiety was to reach his family with the least possible delay.
A little further, and his eager eyes would catch sight of that humble home, where all that was dear in this world was gathered. He had but to gallop down that little slope just ahead, across the tiny stream winding below, then up the higher slope beyond, when the valley would open out before him for miles.
The pony seemed to catch the excitement, and, without waiting for the touch of the spur, he increased his pace, even though the pitiless rays of the sun scorched his haunches and flanks until the steamy perspiration dried up and vanished. The sky above the site of his home remained of crystalline clearness and the pulsating atmosphere was unstained by any vapor.
Splash, splash, dashed the mustang through the shallow water without pausing to moisten his parching throat—then up the brief incline at the same headlong speed, and the next moment the rider uttered a groan and his heart seemed to cease beating; for, directly ahead, he saw the ascending smoke of a burning building.
“The Apaches are there!” he exclaimed, and he was right.