The Last of the Plainsmen 



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 recog 

 nized the cream mustang; he knew the somber, sinis 

 ter, broad face. It belonged to the Red Chief of 

 the Apaches. 



&quot; Geronimo ! &quot; 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. 

 The hoof-beats softened and ceased. 



&quot;Gone?&quot; whispered Rude. 



&quot; Gone. But wait,&quot; whispered Jones. He knew 

 the savage nature, and he knew how to wait. After 

 a long time, he cautiously crawled out of the thicket 

 and searched the surroundings with a plainsman s 

 eye. He climbed the slope and saw the clouds of 

 dust, the near one small, the far one large, which 

 told him all he needed to know. 



&quot; Comanches? &quot; queried Adams, with a quaver in 

 his voice. He was new to the plains. 



&quot; Likely,&quot; said Jones, who thought it best not to 

 tell all he knew. Then he added to himself: &quot; We ve 

 no time to lose. There s water back here somewhere. 



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