“That’s all right,” responded Mickey.  “I’m reddy to take the chances in that kind of business.  Lead on, and we’ll try it.  It’ll soon be dark, and I’m getting tired of this fooling.”

Sut liked that kind of talk.  There was a business ring about it, and he responded: 

“I’ll go ahead, and when it’s time to stop I’ll make yer the signal.  Keep watch of my motions.”

Ten minutes later they had reached a spot so near the opening that Mickey easily recognized it.  He compressed his lips and his eyes flashed with a stern determination as he surveyed it.  The scout was still in the advance, proceeding in the same careful manner, all his wits about him, when he again paused, and motioned for the Irishman to stop.  The latter saw and recognized the gesture, but he declined to obey it.  He permitted his mustang to walk on until he had reached the spot where Sut was crouching, making the most furious kind of motions, and telling him to stay where he was.

“Why didn’t yer stop when I tell yer, blast ye?” he demanded angrily.

“Is that the place where ye expected to go out?” asked Mickey, without noticing the question, as he pointed off to the spot which he had fixed upon as the one for which they were searching.

“Of course it is; but what of it?  You can’t do anything thar.”

“I’ll show ye, me laddy; I’m going there as sure as me name’s Mickey O’Rooney, and me.”

“Yer ain’t going to try any such thing; if yer do, I’ll bore yer.”

But the Irishman had already given the word to his horse.  The latter bounded forward, passing by the dumbfounded hunter, who raised his rifle, angered enough to tumble the reckless fellow from the saddle.  But, of course, he could not do that, and he stared in a sort of a wondering amazement at the course of the Irishman.  The latter, instead of seeking to conceal his identity, seemed to take every means to make it known.  He put the mustang on a dead run, sat bolt upright on his back, and Sut even fancied that he could see that his cap was set a little to one side, so as to give himself a saucy, defiant air to whomsoever might look upon him.

“Skulp me! if he ain’t a good rider!” exclaimed the scout, anxious to assist him in the trouble with which he was certain to environ himself.  “But he is riding to his death.  Thar! what next?  He’s crazy.”

This exclamation was caused by seeing Mickey lift his cap and swing it about his head, emitting at the same time a number of yells such as no Apache among them all could have surpassed.

“Whoop! whoop! ye bloody spalpeens! it’s meself, Mickey O’Rooney, that’s on the war-path, and do ye kape out of the way, or there’ll be some heads broken.”

Could madness further go?  Instead of trying to avoid an encounter with the Apaches, the belligerent Irishman seemed actually to be seeking it.  And there was no danger of his being disappointed.  Certain of this, Sut Simpson hurried on after him, for the purpose of giving what assistance he could in the desperate encounter soon to take place.