“Hark!” sharply commanded Mr. Wheeler. “I’m sure I heard a gun behind.”
“I thought I did, too,” said Sam.
A puff of white smoke arose from the crest of a small knoll, half a league behind; then a man was seen to spring on the summit and wave his hat frantically.
The eagle eye and electric brain of Cimarron Jack took in the situation at once. He struck his steel spurs sharply into the blood-bay’s flanks.
“Come on!” he shouted, galloping toward the gesticulating man. “There’s something wrong with the train. Come on! follow the tiger-cat!”
They followed, pell-mell, plying the spur. As if cognizant of the importance of speed, the horses bent their heads and fairly flew; while their riders kept their eyes upon the man on the knoll.
Suddenly he disappeared and a new object came in sight. Afar off on the plain, beyond the invisible train, came a man on a galloping animal. He was followed by another and more, all shooting out from behind a distant ridge.
“’Patchees!” yelled Simpson. “They air a-makin’ fur the train!”
The guide was right. The train was halted behind the knoll, and the Apaches were galloping toward it. They had evidently been following the trail, as they were coming from the south-east.
“Hurry!” cried Sam. “We will have to fly to save the train.” And as he spoke he bent over his “clay-bank’s” neck as if to accelerate his speed.