The band galloped down to the hollow, and slowing up, piled single file over the bank.

The leader, a short, squat chief, plunged into the brake not twenty yards from the hidden men.

Jones recognized the cream mustang; he knew the somber, sinister, broad face.

It belonged to the Red Chief of the Apaches.
"Geronimo!" murmured the plainsman through his teeth.
Well for the Apache that no falcon savage eye discovered aught strange in the little hollow! One look at the sand of the stream bed would have cost him his life.

But the Indians crossed the thicket too far up; they cantered up the slope and disappeared.