“There is an Indian behind that rock, for I saw his head,” muttered the young rider as his horse flew on.
Did he intend to take his chances and dash along the trail directly by his ambushed foe?
It would seem so, for he still stuck to the trail.
A moment more and he would be within range of a bullet, when, suddenly dashing his spurs into the flanks of his pony, Billy Cody wheeled to the right, and in an oblique course headed for the cliff.
This proved to the foe in ambush that his presence there was suspected, if not known, and at once there came the crack of a rifle, the puff of smoke rising above the rock where he was concealed.
At the same time a yell went up from a score of throats, and out of the timber on the other side of the valley darted a number of mounted Indians, and these rode to head off the rider.
Did he turn back and seek safety in a retreat to the station?
No; he was made of sterner stuff, and would run the gauntlet.
Out from behind the bowlder, where they had been lying in ambush, sprang two painted braves, in all the glory of their war-paint.