Valentine smiled gently.
"I will try it," he said. "To horse!"
Each leaped into the saddle.
"Now," Valentine continued, "remain invisible behind the shrubs. These Indians are Apaches; when they come within range, you will all fire without showing yourselves."
Each set his rifle, and held in readiness. There was a moment of supreme expectation, and the hunters' hearts beat violently.
The Indians still approached, bowed over the necks of their panting steeds, brandishing their weapons furiously, and uttering at intervals their formidable war cry. They came up at headlong speed, preceded about one hundred yards by the man they were pursuing, whom they must soon catch up, for his wearied horse stumbled continually, and was sensibly diminishing its speed.
At length the stranger passed with lightning speed the thicket which concealed those who were about to try a diversion in his favour, that might ruin them.
"Attention," Valentine commanded in a low voice. The rifles were lowered on the Apaches.
"Aim carefully," the Trail-hunter added. "Every bullet must, kill its man."
A minute elapsed—a minute an age in length.