The horses pounded forward and swept round a curve of the gulch into sight of the ranch.  In a semicircle, crouched behind the shelter of boulders and cottonwoods, the Indian line stretched across the gorge and along one wall.  The buildings lay in a little valley, where an arroyo ran down at a right angle and broke the rock escarpment.  A spurt of smoke came from a window of the stable as the rescuers galloped into view.

One of the Apaches caught sight of them and gave a guttural shout of warning.  His gun jumped to the shoulder and simultaneously the bullet was on its way.  But no living man could throw a shot quicker than Jim Thursday, if the stories still told of him around camp-fires are true.  Now he did not wait to take sight, but fired from his hip.  The Indian rose, half-turned, and fell forward across the boulder, his naked body shining in the sun.  By a hundredth part of a second the white boy had out-speeded him.

The riders flung themselves from their horses and ran for cover.

The very audacity of their attack had its effect.  The Indians guessed these two were the advance guard of a larger party which had caught them in a trap.  Between two fires, with one line of retreat cut off, the bronco Apaches wasted no time in deliberation.  They made a rush for their horses, mounted, and flew headlong toward the arroyo, their bodies lying low on the backs of the ponies.

The Indians rode superbly, their bare, sinewy legs gripping even to the moccasined feet the sides of the ponies.  Without saddle or bridle, except for the simple nose rope, they guided their mounts surely, the brown bodies rising and falling in perfect accord with the motion of the horses.

A shot from the stable hit one as he galloped past.  While his horse was splashing through the creek the Mescalero slid slowly down, head first, into the brawling water.

Billie took a long, steady aim and fired.  A horse stumbled and went down, flinging the rider over its head.  With a “Yip—­Yip!” of triumph Thursday drew a bead on the man as he rose and dodged forward.  Just as the boy fired a sharp pain stung his foot.  One of the escaping natives had wounded him.

The dismounted man ran forward a few steps and pulled himself to the back of a pony already carrying one rider.  Something in the man’s gait and costume struck Prince.

“That fellow’s no Injun,” he called to his friend.

“Look!” Thursday was pointing to the saddle-back between two peaks at the head of the arroyo.

A girl on horseback had just come over the summit and stood silhouetted against the sky.  Even in that moment while they watched her she realized for the first time her danger.  She turned to fly, and she and her horse disappeared down the opposite slope.  The Mescaleros swept up the hill toward her.

“They’ll git her!  They’ll sure git her!” cried Billie, making for his horse.

The younger man ran limping to his cinnamon.  At every step he winced, and again while his weight rested on the wounded foot as he dragged himself to the saddle.  A dozen yards behind his companion he sent his horse splashing through the creek.