“The voice of the Trailer!”
The trap-door rung harshly as he slammed it to from the inside. The mustang heard the sound, tossed his head, and galloped away a short distance, then stopped and looked at the hillock.
It was bare—no one was in sight. Relieved of her sudden fear, she dropped her head and grazed again. The sun slowly set over the Land of Silence.
Who spoke?
The man with the black plume in his conical hat.
CHAPTER VII.
“APACHES!”
The pursuing band wound away over the plain, now, at four hours from sunrise, invisible from the banks of the Gila.
They were, as has been said, divided into two separate parties. That of Cimarron Jack was in advance, the riders urging on their steeds at a swift amble. The wagons behind under charge of Burt Scranton, rattled along merrily, drawn by horses kept at a slow trot.
“I say,” said Jack, as they trotted on, “we are nearly into the Land of Silence, now, ain’t we?”