“But they will shoot us—Red-Knife’s band.”
“Oh, they will try? I know I’m the crack shot of these plains, and I can’t hit a man three quarters of a mile off with a carbine that won’t kill at three hundred yards. They darsn’t come within half a mile to shoot, so we are safe from that quarter. There’s no time to be lost; those red fools may be crawling up the other side of the hill for all we know.”
So saying, he coolly left the wagons, and deliberately walked up the hillside. He was greeted with a volley from Red-Knife’s band, but the bullets fell far short; the short Mexican carbines were useless at long range.
He slackened his pace as he drew near the summit, and dropping on all-fours, crept up to the top, and peered quickly but cautiously over. Then, with a short oath, he rose to his feet, and with a surprised look gazed over the plain.
“What is it, Jack?” demanded the guide.
“Tear my ten-ton heart out if there’s an Apache in sight on this side.”
“That so?”
“It’s a fact. Come up here and see, if you don’t believe it.”
The guide grasped his rifle and started toward the summit. The rest followed.
“Stay back, every one!” commanded Jack. “Two’s enough up here. You stay back and keep the renegade at a distance.”