The two Apaches tied their horses to nearby trees and continued to scan the hills below them. It was Geronimo who spoke.
"They come."
Far beneath, made small by distance, a line of Mexican soldiers moved slowly but steadily on the cattle's trail. The two Apaches looked at them as one might regard some interesting insects.
Geronimo had never been a chief while Apaches still lived by their ancient customs. But he was one now because he had been chosen by the people who had escaped from San Carlos, to be their leader. Neither he nor Francisco, the warrior, were the least bit excited by the sight of the Mexican soldiers. Their rifles leaned against two trees.
The Sierra Madres, with their low foothills that rose to ten-thousand-foot peaks, were known only to Apaches. Two hundred miles long by a hundred miles wide, the only human dwellings in the entire vast range were wickiups.
It was here that the Apaches held their pony races, played their endless games, and hunted. When they felt in need of amusement or plunder, they left their camps in the Sierra Madres to raid Mexican towns or ranches. Returning to the mountains, they were always safe. No force of rurales had ever penetrated this wild retreat.
After a bit, Geronimo sat down and cast only an occasional glance toward the oncoming soldiers. He yawned.
"We needn't have been so hasty," he said. "Mexicans know two gaits, slow and slower."
"Yes," Francisco was amusing himself by tracing designs in the earth with a stick.