"Why didn't the Indians take the horse?" was Powell's question.
"Because it's grey. They ain't got no use for a grey or white horse, specially when they're out for trouble."
Limber studied the ground about the horse and its dead owner.
"Too rocky to show any trail," he commented at last.
"He's been dead over night," Powell asserted as he finished examining the body.
"The Apaches have been hangin' about for several nights in the Graham range. Thar's two bunches. I seen 'em signalling three nights ago right back of Fort Grant where the soldiers couldn't catch sight of their fires. They keep lookouts on the high peaks and hold a blanket in front of the fire. Beats a telegraph office. Thar ain't nothin' smarter 'n an Apache, unless it's two Apaches. You can't trust one unless he's dead. Chances is that the two bunches figure to come together at Point of Mountains, seven miles north of Willcox. Then when it's dark they'll jump across the valley to Cochise Stronghold and work into Mexico."
"But, the soldiers could head them off," Powell interposed.
Limber snorted. "Sounds that way all right. But, if you jest look at these mountains and cañons, you'll pretty soon see that the soldiers has jest as much chanct against them Apaches as an elephant would have if you set him in a hayfield to kill a flea by trompin' on it. When they're tired of killin' people and want a vacation and no hard work, they come in and give themselves up and go home to the Reservation."
"There's nothing to be done here now, except to notify the proper authorities at Willcox, I suppose," Powell resumed. "We found him—but it's a different ending from the way we thought."
Limber unstrapped a Navajo blanket from the back of his saddle, and together they wrapped the stiffened form of the old doctor.