He wheeled Chiquito to one side, quick; barely had time to get out of their way—didn’t have time to get out of the way of the three young bucks chasing them full tilt; and before he could spur Chiquito up the flank of the draw, for cover, he was a “goner.”
With a yell and with guns leveled the three bronc’s had charged him; a bullet sang by his ear; and he raised his hand for a talk. They arrived instantly, reined short, around him. He didn’t know them, and they appeared not to know him.
“Chi-kis-n,” he attempted. But they only scowled and talked among themselves in Apache.
“Shall we kill him here?”
“That is best.”
“Stick him with your lance.”
“You talk foolish,” retorted Jimmie boldly, in good Apache. “There’s no sense in killing me. You’ll only get in trouble by it. Take me to your chief.”
“Who are you, that speaks Apache?”
“Never you mind who I am,” retorted Jimmie. “You take me to your chief. If he says kill me, all right. But you’d better wait till he does say so. You’re only warriors.”
“Where are the rest of your party, white man?”