CHAPTER IV FACING LONE WOLF

Fred’s few weeks spent in crossing the plains on his way to the valley of the Rio Pecos had taught him much of the ways of the Indians, and he knew that if any of the scamps were in his immediate neighborhood, it would be almost impossible for him to stir from his position by the tree without betraying himself.  The lad half suspected that the sound was made by some wild animal that was stealing through the wood, or what was more likely, that it was no more than a falling leaf; but, whatever it was, he was determined to learn if the thing were among the possibilities.

A veteran Comanche, himself, could not have picked his way through the undergrowth any better than did he; and, when at last he stood upon the edge of the open space and looked around, he was morally certain that no other creature was aware of his movement.  Nor was he aware of the action of the other party, if there was really such a one, which had been the means of bringing him thither.  If some wild animal or wild Indian were lurking in the vicinity, he knew how to remain invisible.

“I’ll stay here a little while—­”

Fred at that moment was looking at the cottonwood tree, which, it will be remembered, had been felled directly across the opening, when, to his speechless terror, the figure of an Indian warrior suddenly rose upright from behind it, and stood as motionless as a statue.  His action indicated that he was not aware that any one was standing so near him.  He had probably crept up to the log behind which he crouched, until, believing he was not in danger of being seen, he arose to his feet and assumed the attitude of one who was using his eyes and ears to their utmost extent.

He was of ordinary stature, without any blanket, his long, black hair hanging loosely down upon his shoulders, his scarred and ugly countenance daubed and smeared with different colored paint, his chest bare, and ornamented in the same fashion, a knife at his girdle, and a long, formidable rifle in his hand—­such were the noticeable characteristics, to a superficial observer, of Lone Wolf, the Apache chief—­for the Indian confronting Fred Munson was really he, and no one else.

The lad suspected the identity of the red-skin, although, having never seen him, it amounted only to a suspicion.  No matter who he was, however, he was prepared for him.

The Apache showed his usual cunning.  He was evidently attempting to steal upon the sentinels, and, having risen to his feet, he remained motionless and upright, listening for any sign that might betray any motion of the individuals whom he was seeking to slay, as does the assassin at night.

“He must have been after me, for he is right behind where I stood,” thought the boy, as he grasped his rifle more firmly than ever, resolved to fire upon the wretch the moment he attempted to advance.