He made his way up to the brush cautiously with a pistol in each hand, and just as he peered in two Indians sprang upon him and grabbed his arms, which caused his pistols both to be discharged up in the air.  They quickly bore poor Maloney to the ground and soon had him bound hand and foot.  They then drove a stake into the ground and tied Mike to it, and began to gather brush for the fire.  This did not suit him a bit, but all he could do was to hurl an avalanche of words at them, which, of course, they did not understand and to which they paid no heed.

“Ah, ye dhurty divils,” said Mike.  “Ye’s have took me pistols both away from me.  Ye’s know I can’t hurt ye’s without me guns, so what’s the use in ye’s tyin’ me like a hog, ye dhurty blackguards.  Let me loose and Oi’ll be afther lavin’ ye’s.  Oi’ll do it be the boots that hung on Chatham’s Hill.  I do belave they are goin’ to burn me alive.  O, ye bloody haythens; let me loose and Oi’ll fight the pair of ye’s if ye’s have got me pistols.”

The Indians by this time had the fire started, but Mike still retained his nerve, cussing the red fiends by all the powers in the Irish vocabulary.

Davis and I were pushing on with all possible speed in the direction of the place we expected to find Maloney’s trail, when we heard two pistol shots in quick succession further up the canyon, so we put our horses down to their utmost in the direction from whence the sound of the shots came.

After running about two miles we came in sight of a small fire a short distance away that seemed to be but just kindled.  We dashed up at full speed and found Mike tied to a stake and two Apaches piling brush on the fire.  We fired at the Indians through the gathering darkness, but only killed one, and the other one made off about as fast as you ever saw an Indian go.  Jim kicked the fire away from Mike and cut his bonds before he was burned to speak of.  I asked him how he came to be taken prisoner by just two Apaches, and his story ran like this: 

“Oi’ll tell ye, Captain, it was on that sage-brush hill there while I was ridin’ along I saw a thrack in the sand and sure I was that it was not the thrack of an Injun for it was a dainty little thing and the hollow of the foot didn’t make a hole in the ground like an Apache’s and Apaches niver wear shoes, aither.  Well, I got off me horse and stharted to follow the thrack, and whin I got to that bunch of brush the dhurty rid divils sprang out on me like a pair of hounds, tied me hands and fate, and was tryin’ to burn me aloive whin ye’s came up.”

“Well, Mike,” said I, holding up the scalp of the Indian we had killed, “here is one Indian that will not bother you again, but be more careful next time.”