"Twenty or more," he replied.
"What shall we do?" I inquired, anxiously.
"That depends on them," he replied, coolly. "We will stay where we are for the present."
"Perhaps they will pass to the north of us," I said, "and thus miss our trail."
"Maybe," he replied. "I am going to take another look."
"Me too," I said.
With extreme caution we climbed to the edge of the gully and looked over. They were still some distance off, and so far were riding parallel to the ravine we had come down.
It was the first time that I had had a good view of mounted Indians and I could not help feeling impressed. From the wild and stormy background of the thunder clad mountains they rode out upon the shadowed plains.
The ponies seemed small compared with the tall, gaunt forms of the Indians that rode them. The leader, a gigantic brave, was gesticulating freely with his long snaky arms.
I have noticed that Indians are apt to be much less stolid when mounted than on foot. With his feathered crest he seemed like a great bird of prey as he scanned the plains. There was something uncannily cruel and treacherous about them that sent a chill all over me. It was the first time that I had seen the dread Apaches, the most to be feared among all the tribes of the plains or mountains. If only the dead settlers and their families, those whom the Apaches had murdered, could speak, their stories would recall to memory horrors innumerable.