Two long, fringed, buckskinned arms closed slowly around him as his foot lifted for the first step. Sid halted wonderingly—but the push of Honanta urged him on:
“Go forth, my son—and I will go with thee!” whispered the chief’s voice in his ear. “I cannot see thee slain! Let them shoot!”
Honanta’s own arms were around him now, his body protectingly between him and the Apaches. That was the way he had solved his dilemma!
Sid backed rebelliously. “No, chief! No! You must not!” he protested, attempting to turn in the chief’s arms. The utter silence of astonishment was all around them, the Apaches hesitating, arrow on bow, utterly disconcerted at this sudden development.
“On! While there is time!” grated the chief’s voice. “We shall escape to your people. They must never find Red Mesa. I trust you, my son, to keep silence!” urged Honanta.
Sid nodded. Honanta had found the best way out of it all. They were about to go on, letting the tribe decide as it would, when the distant Rrrraammp! Rrrraammp! Rrrraammp! of rifle shots coming from over the mountain arrested them.
“Halt! It is too late, Honanta!” barked Sid. “Listen!”
A fusillade of distant rifle shots broke out; then the rapid, continuous discharge of a repeating rifle.
“Ten shots!” said Sid. “That’s the Navaho’s Winchester, chief. Ours hold only five. Those other shots are Mausers—not hunting rifles! The Mexicans are here!”
He pushed Honanta back in the cave and then faced the Apaches. “Warriors of the Apache, I must stay and fight with you!” his voice rang out. “Those rifles are of Mexicanos, coming to take your home. After it is all over you can do what you will with me. Is it peace?”