And then the younger one slipped out of the coach and was gone.
The others watched breathlessly. This movement had taken the savages
by surprise. The lad darted into the mesquites, running with head low.
Bullets buzzed about him, kicking up clouds of dust at his feet.
Arrows whistled after him. A yell went up from the Apaches.
"Will he make it?" groaned the father, in an agonized voice.
"Doubt it," said the guard.
The messenger sprinted at top speed through the brush, then dived down into an arroyo. A score of warriors swarmed after him, firing shot after shot from their rifles. Already the youth was out of arrow range.
The guard shaded his eyes with his hand. "He's got a chance, anyways," he decided.
The town of Lost Springs—if such a tiny settlement could have been called a town—sprawled in a valley of cottonwoods, a scattering of low-roofed adobes. To find such an oasis, after traveling the heat-tortured wilderness to the east or the west, was such relief to the wayfarer that few missed stopping.
There was but one public building in the place—a large building of plastered earth which was at the same time a saloon, a store, a gambling hall, and a meeting place for those who cared to partake of its hospitality.
The crude sign over the narrow door read: "Garvey's Place." It was enough. Garvey was the storekeeper, the master of the gamblers, and the saloon owner. Lost Springs was a one-man town, and that man was Gil Garvey. His reputation was not of the best. Dark marks had been chalked up against his record, and his past was shady, too. There were whispers, too, of even worse things. It was, however, a land where nobody asked questions. It was too dangerous. Garvey was accepted in Lost Springs because he had power.
It was a hot morning. The thermometer outside Garvey's door already registered one hundred and five. Heat devils chased one another across the valley. But inside the building it was comparatively cool. Glasses tinkled on the long, smooth bar. The roulette wheel whirred, and even at that early hour, cards were being slapped down, faces up, at the stud-poker table. Including the customers at the bar, there were perhaps a dozen men in the house besides Garvey himself. Garvey was tending bar, which was his habit until noon, when his bartender relieved him.