This was a long, cold wait.
The fire in the southwest flared regularly at intervals of about an hour. “Answer,” it kept saying. “Answer.” Jimmie eyed the north as well as the south—and at midnight the expected happened. The signal in the south had been answered, for it suddenly broke into a message.
There were one long flash and several shorter ones. Then, quickly following, two flashes, and an interval, and two more.
As anybody ought to know, this spelled: “All right. We will wait two days.”
The fire died. That was the end. Jimmie jumped to a conclusion. There had been only the one fire in the south; so the answer had come from the north, and he had somehow missed it. But the Indians in Mexico had signalled to some Indians in Arizona, and were to wait two days!
The Chiricahuas had arranged to run away! Probably they already were out, making for Mexico, to join runaways already there. Whew! Great Scott!
Well, all that he could do was to wait until daylight, and then make for Bowie. And the sooner the better, because he was right in the track of runaways.
He went down to his camp, and got a half night’s sleep. In the morning he did not wait to gather his mules; he saddled Chiquito at daylight and struck out by the shortest way.
The country all seemed peaceful. Who might have foretold that he would bump right into the hostiles? But that is precisely what happened. He was loping up a shallow draw fringed by rocks and stunted pines—had been riding two hours—when as he rounded a shoulder, on a sudden here there came at headlong gallop a dozen steers.