"I don't know. I do know, though, that I wouldn't trust those ugly faces one second. I thought the Blackfeet were savage, but they're not to be compared with these redskins."
A full dozen of them had, by this time, come into view. They sat huddled on their ponies, their painted faces just appearing above the gayly colored blankets in which they were enveloped.
"They must be cold," muttered Chunky. "Shouldn't think they'd need bed clothes around them this time of the year."
"Not so loud, Chunky," warned Tad.
"Know what they are, Tad?"
"I wouldn't say positively, but somehow they look to me like Apaches."
Tad's surmise was correct. The twelve warriors were members of the savage band that had in past years caused the Government so much trouble and bloodshed.
"They're off their reservation, if they are Apaches," whispered the lad.
"What does that indicate, Tad?"
"I don't know. They may be on the warpath; then, again, they may be down here after game. I'm not sure even, if there is any game here. We'll lie still until they get by us. That's the best plan; don't you think so?"