As for him, he had whooped his very loudest just before he reached the chaparral, and a gust of wind had helped him like a brother. Again Castro had raised a hand, but now he shouted fiercely,—
"Hear heap boy! Red Wolf! No lose hair yet. Ugh! Whoop!"
For all he knew, nevertheless, he may have been listening to the last battle-cry of his brave son. He and his braves were at that moment riding in among the bushes, while more than half a mile away, upon the prairie, galloped Bowie and his riflemen.
"Reckon we'll git thar jest about in time to see 'em count the skelps," remarked one ranger.
"Reckon not," replied another. "Those Lipans are as safe as jack-rabbits if once they kin fetch the chaparral."
Red Wolf had reached it, but he was by no means safe. Great Bear himself had dashed in so recklessly that he and his first handful of fast racers were galloping upon the wrong paths. They discovered their error, or thought they did, in a minute or so, but a minute was of importance just then. They lost it before a kind of instinct told them to wheel eastward if they expected to find the Lipans.
That had been the direction taken by one of their best-mounted comrades on entering the chaparral, and the soft thud of his horse's hoofs had now reached the quick ears of Red Wolf.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "One!"
He had pulled in his panting pony, and he now unslung his bow and put an arrow on the string.
"Red Wolf young chief!" he said. "Wait for Comanche! Tell Big Knife!"