“I been hoofin’ et all night, Buffler,” complained Nomad; “an’ when a feller gits bow-legged from saddle-work, et’s plumb hard fer him ter navigate on anythin’ but er hoss. Now, ef we knowed whar thet thar valley with ther pizened spring was, we could hev things er heap easier, an’——”
The trapper broke off his talk with a wild yell. He, and the scout, and the girl had rounded the turn and had come plump upon a full dozen Apache warriors.
No wonder Nomad was startled. The scout and the girl likewise realized that they were face to face with unforeseen peril. All hands leaped to revolver-grips. The scout and the girl hesitated, but Nomad was on the point of pulling both triggers when the scout gripped his arm sharply.
“Wait, Nick!” he cautioned.
“Why ever d’ye want ter wait?” demanded Nomad. “Et’s er wonder ther pizen whelps hevn’t shot us down afore this.”
“Watch them! If I’m any judge, the entire outfit is locoed.”
The Indians were on foot, and in full war-paint. The appearance of the three whites, against whom they had taken the war-path, did not appear to cause them the least surprise, or to arouse the slightest sign of hostility.
The Apaches began chanting some song of their own, and eleven of them clasped hands and started dancing around the twelfth, who stood in the center of the circle.
“Sort of er ring-eround-a-rosy,” muttered Nomad.