The rear rank of the Lipans had made a brave charge, and it had taught them all they needed to know. The battle was lost, and their only remaining hope was in the speed of their horses. They turned from that fruitless charge as one man, and rode swiftly away—swiftly, but not wildly, for they were veterans, and they kept well together. A few of the Apaches followed in pursuit, but the Lipans were well mounted. The approach of night favored them, and in the darkness the main body made its way to the shelter of the mountain pass in safety.
Even before the Apaches had set out to find their Lipan enemies, Murray and Steve made their way across the ford, and were guided by a bright-eyed boy to the lodge which had been set apart for them.
"Now, Steve," said Murray, "you stay here awhile. I can do some things better if I'm alone."
"All right;" and Steve threw himself down on the blanket he had spread upon the grass.
The lodges of the chief were not far apart from each other, and Murray had not gone twenty steps before he found himself in front of one of them, and face to face with a very stout and dark-complexioned squaw. But if she had been a warrior in the most hideous war-paint she could not have expected a man like Send Warning to be startled so at meeting her.
Perhaps she did not notice the tremor which went over him from head to foot, or that his voice was a little husky when he spoke to her. At all events, she answered him promptly enough, for at that moment there was nobody in sight or hearing for whose approval or disapproval Mother Dolores cared a button. The two girls within the tent were not worth considering.
Murray had used his eyes to some purpose when he had watched Dolores at her cooking, and his first words had made her his very good friend.
"Squaw of great chief. Squaw great cook. Know how."
"Is Send Warning hungry?"