Not one of the persons who had "wondered what had become of those miners" had so much as guessed at the exact truth, although Murray had come nearer to it than anybody else.

That sunrise found them, as they thought, once for all safe within the boundary of the "foreign country," where no one would ask them any ugly questions about the stolen gold they had brought there.

In fact, the first thing they did, after finishing their hearty breakfast of fresh beef, was to "unpack themselves." Every man wanted to know if he had lost anything on the way, and to make as good a guess as he could how much his load was worth. Then it seemed as if they all spoke together when they tried to express their regret at having been compelled to leave any of their treasure behind.

"No use to think of going back for it now, boys. Some day we'll take another look at that mine, but there won't be a thing worth going for in that wagon."

"What do ye mean to do next, Cap?" asked Bill.

"I told you before. Give our horses a chance to feed, and then push right on. We can afford to use 'em all up now. Three days of hard riding'll carry us out of harm's way."

"And then we can go jest whar we please."

There was a wonderful deal of comfort in that for men who had been "running away" so long as they had, and over so very rough a country. Their hard, rude, weather-beaten faces began to put on an expression of peace and quiet, and even of good-nature, and they gave their weary horses a longer rest than they had at first intended. After that, however, the sharp, stern summons of Captain Skinner called them to "mount and ride" once more, and they were all ready to obey. It was a wild region through which they were going, but at more than one place they passed the ruins of old houses and other traces of former attempts at settlement and cultivation.

"There were good ranches hereaway in the old times," said Captain Skinner, "and there was some mining done, but it was too near the Apache range, and there were too many revolutions. It won't be settled up till there's a new state of things. The Apaches'll take care of that."

All their troubles, they thought, were behind them, and they cared very little for those of the country they had gotten into—less than they might have done if they had imagined how nearly those very troubles might yet concern themselves.

It was impossible, however, not to think and talk about the Apaches, and to "wonder how the Lipans came out of their attack on that village."

Captain Skinner's comment was, "I don't reckon a great many of 'em came out at all. The chances were against them. Old Two Knives made a mistake for once, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd had to pay for it."

Well, so he had, but not so heavily as the Captain imagined.

At that very moment he was leading through the homeward pass just about half of his original war-party—all that "had come out of the attack on that village."

The village itself was in a high state of fermentation that morning. There was mourning in some of the lodges over braves who had fallen in that brief, sharp battle with the Lipans, but there were only five of these in all, so great had been the advantage of superior numbers in the fight, and of holding the ground of it afterward.

The bitterest disgrace of To-la-go-to-de and his warriors had been their failure to carry off the bodies of their friends who had fallen. At least twenty of the Apaches had been more or less wounded, and every man of them was as proud of it as if he had been "promoted." A scar received in battle is a badge of honor to an Indian warrior, and he is apt to make a show of it on every fair opportunity.

There was no need, therefore, of throwing away any pity on those who had been cut by the lances or "barked" by the bullets of the Lipans. Red Wolf himself had concealed a smart score of a lance-thrust along his left side, for fear he might be forbidden going on that second war-path. Even now he refused to consider it as amounting to anything, and his sister's face glowed with family pride as she said to Rita,

"Red Wolf is a true Apache. He's a warrior already. He will be a great chief some day. The Knotted Cord is white. He has no scars. He has never been on a war-path."

She was speaking in her brother's hearing, and Steve was at no great distance at that very moment, talking, in a low, earnest tone, with Murray.

Rita replied, "He is young. Send Warning is a warrior—" But Red Wolf broke in, very honestly, with,

"Knotted Cord is my brother. Only his skin is white. Not his heart. He is a warrior. He has been on war-paths. He has seen the Lipans, the Comanches, the Pawnees, the Mexicans. He is not a boy."

Ni-ha-be's little "pet" was blown away by that, and she looked once more admiringly at the strong and handsome young pale-face. If he had only been so fortunate as to be born an Apache, what might not have been expected of him!

The girls had many questions to ask concerning the events of the night before, and Red Wolf was in an accommodating frame of mind that morning. It was right, too, in his opinion, that the squaws of his family should be able to boast among the other squaws of the mighty doings of their father and brother. That was the way the reputations of warriors were to be made and kept up, aided now and then by the good things they might see fit to say about themselves.

In all that there is just this difference between red men and white, and it would soon disappear with civilization.

That is, when a great white "brave" of any kind does a thing he is proud of he manages to have the story of it printed in the newspapers, so that all his boasting is done for him by somebody else.

The Indian "brave" is compelled to be his own newspaper, and tell his own story of himself. That is all, and it sometimes makes the poor red man appear to be the vainer of the two, which is a great injustice.

The conversation between Steve and Murray could not be overheard by their friends, but it must have been of more than a little importance, to judge by the expression that came and went upon their faces. No Indian warrior's face would have betrayed his feelings in such a manner.

Dolores was busy at the camp-fires, as usual, with her frying-pan, and they were looking at her.

"How old do you think she is, Steve?"

"It's hard to guess, Murray. Maybe she's forty-five."

"She is not much above thirty. The Mexican women grow old sooner than white ones. She was not much above twenty when she cooked for my miners on the Santa Rita mine."

"Do you feel perfectly sure about that?"

"I've watched her. There is no doubt left in my mind. Still, I may ask her a few more questions. Then there is one thing more I want to make sure of."

"Will it keep us here long?"

"It may keep me, Steve."

"Then it will keep me, Murray. You will need me if you have anything on hand. I am anxious enough to get off, but I will not leave you behind. I'll stay and help."

Murray held out his hand.

"It's a fact, Steve. I may need all the help you can give."

"Take care! Here comes Many Bears himself, and two of his cunningest councillors."

It did not require much guessing on Steve's part to know that, for the "cunning" of those old Indians was written all over their dark, wrinkled faces.

"More advice wanted," thought Murray, but it was not asked for so soon as he expected.

The first words of Many Bears were complimentary, ............