“Yes.”
“If you’ll travel fast, I’ll take you,” said Red-head. “Soldiers are coming. If we don’t find them you can go to Chief Pedro of the White Mountains. The Chiricahua never visit there, because of the fort.”
“Bueno (Good),” approved Jimmie.
Red-head set out at a trot and rapid walk, but Jimmie kept right in his wake. Jimmie’s legs were as strong as those of Red-head; his training in the Apache games stood by him. On and on and on they hastened, without a word, through the night, amidst timber, and across open flats, and down cactus hills and up again.
Red-head seemed to know what he was about, but Jimmie of course was completely lost. Not until the dusk had thinned and the eastern sky was pink did Red-head halt, at a spring which had made the ground mushy in a little hollow among rocks and cedars.
“Drink, eat, rest,” he said. He grinned with his freckled face, his long red hair was damp with sweat. “You did well, Boy-who-sleeps. One more travel and they cannot catch us. Wait.”
He fitted an arrow to his bow-string and stepped aside, hunting. Jimmie flung himself down, drank, and lay flat, resting. The sky was pink as far as over-head, he might glimpse Red-head moving silently among the cedars; saw him shoot an arrow; and presently Red-head returned with two rabbits.
They started a fire by twirling a pointed stick set upon a flat piece of wood until the dust smoked; then they blew upon the dust and some bark tinder until there was a glow. Then they cooked the rabbits over dry cedar that made no smoke.