Surrender? This Indian play was robbery and murder, and not the honest game of war. The man who happens imprudent into his own bear-trap is not going to get much solace by claiming to be a warrior and putting up white flags. The game was bear-traps, and those Apaches had got to play bear-traps now, whether they liked it or not. There were only two white folks left in the waggons, and one on the hill, so what use had we for a dozen prisoners who would lie low till we gave them a chance, then murder us prompt. The man who reared up with the peace flag got a shot from the waggons which gave him peace eternal.
Then I closed down with my rifle, taking the Indians by turns as they tried to bolt, while the quiet gun in the waggon camp arrested fugitives and the scary marksman splashed lead at the hill most generous. Out of sixteen Apaches two and the boy got away intact, three damaged, and the rest were gathered to their fathers.
When it was all over I felt unusual solemn, running my paw slow over my head to make sure I still had my scalp; then collected my two ponies and rode around to the camp. There I ranged up with a yell, lifting my hand to make the sign of peace, and a man came limping out from the waggons. He carried his rifle, and led a yearling son by the paw.
The man was tall, clean-built, and of good stock for certain, but his clothes were in the lo-and-behold style—a pane of glass on the off eye, stand-up collar, spotty necktie, boiled shirt, riding-breeches with puffed sleeves most amazing, and the legs of his boots stiff like a brace of stove-pipes. His near leg was all bloody and tied up with a tourniquet bandage. As to his boy Jim, that was just the quaintest thing in the way of pups I ever saw loose on the stock range. He was knee-high to a dawg, but trailed his gun like a man, and looked as wide awake as a little fox. I wondered if I could tame him for a pet.
"How d'ye do?" squeaked the pup, as I stepped down from the saddle.
I allowed I was feeling good.
"I'm sure," said the man, "that we're obliged to you and your friends on the hill. In fact, very much obliged."
Back in Texas I'd seen water go to sleep with the cold, but this man was cool enough to freeze a boiler.
"Will you—er—ask your friends," he drawled, "to come down? I'd like to thank them."
"I'll pass the glad word," said I. "My friends is in Texas."