“We don’t head for no Cross-O-Cross or Wallace’s,” rejoined his friend with emphasis, “an’ we won’t waste no time in Powers’ shack, neither; we’ll push right through as hard as we can go for Buckskin.  Let them fellers find their own hunting—­our outfit comes first.  An’ besides that’ll mean a detour in a country fine for ambushes.  We’d never get through.”

“Well, have it yore own way, then!” snapped Red.  “You allus was a hard-headed old mule, anyhow.”  In his heart Red knew that Hopalong was right about Wallace’s and the Cross-O-Cross.

Some time after the two punchers had quitted the scene of their trap, several Apaches loped up, read the story of the tragedy at a glance, and galloped on in pursuit.  They had left the reservation a fortnight before under the able leadership of that veteran of many war-trails—­Black Bear.  Their leader, chafing at inaction and sick of the monotony of reservation life, had yielded to the entreaties of a score of restless young men and slipped away at their head, eager for the joys of raiding and plundering.  But instead of stealing horses and murdering isolated whites as they had expected, they met with heavy repulses and were now without the mind of their leader.  They had fled from one defeat to another and twice had barely eluded the cavalry which pursued them.  Now two more of their dwindling force were dead and another had been found but an hour before.  Rage and ferocity seethed in each savage heart and they determined to get the puncher they had chased, and that other whose trail they now saw for the first time.  They would place at least one victory against the string of their defeats, and at any cost.  Whips rose and fell and the war-party shot forward in a compact group, two scouts thrown ahead to feel the way.

Red and Hopalong rode on rejoicing, for there were three less Apaches loose in the Southwest for the inhabitants to swear about and fear, and there was an excellent chance of more to follow.  The Southwest had no toleration for the Government’s policy of dealing with Indians and derived a great amount of satisfaction every time an Apache was killed.  It still clung to the time-honored belief that the only good Indian was a dead one.  Mr. Cassidy voiced his elation and then rubbed an empty stomach in vain regret,—­when a bullet shrilled past his head, so unexpectedly as to cause him to duck instinctively and then glance apologetically at his red-haired friend; and both spurred their mounts to greater speed.  Next Mr. Connors grabbed frantically at his perforated sombrero and grew petulant and loquacious.

“Both them shots was lucky, Hoppy; the feller that fired at me did it on the dead run; but that won’t help us none if one of ’em connects with us.  You gimme that Sharps—­got to show ’em that they’re taking big chances crowding us this way.”  He took the heavy rifle and turned in the saddle.  “It’s an even thousand, if it’s a yard.  He don’t look very big, can’t hardly tell him from his cayuse; an’ the wind’s puffy.  Why don’t you dirty or rust this gun?  The sun glitters all along the barrel.  Well, here goes.”