“We will wait here a few minutes,” said Jim. “Perhaps we will sight them.” So the boys crouched at the edge of the grove with the brush for a screen, looking narrowly in the direction of the shots. A half hour passed, still they saw nothing, but they never stirred, and watched steadily. The Frontier Boys had acquired something of the patience of Indians when it came to lying in wait for an enemy.
“There they come,” at length said Juarez the keen-eyed. He had discovered several dark spots moving among the trees.
“That’s them,” cried Jim eagerly. “Four of ’em.”
“If they cut our trail, we will have to fight,” said Juarez, “unless we cut for camp.”
Jim shook his head. “I want to get a closer view of these beggars,” he said.
They were now coming within range, jogging along on their cayuses down the gentle incline between the trees. They had shot a couple of deer.
“Three of them look like Mexicans,” said Juarez. “I believe they are coming right by us.”
“If they do, we will jump the procession,” said Jim.
However, they did not get the chance, for when the hunters had come within about three hundred yards of the grove they turned at right angles and were lost to view behind a spur that ran from the southern ridge. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jim and Juarez left their covert and took up the trail. It was dangerous work, but in their moccasined feet they did not make a sound.