ullets began to buzz again. The Indians were making another charge.
A dense cloud of smoke hung over the ambushed coach. White powder
spurts blossomed out from the brush, and the war cry came shrilly. The
rush brought a line of half-naked warriors to within a few yards of the
coach. Then they fell back again, leaving four of their number dead or
wounded on the sand.

"So far, so good," panted the guard. "But we can't do that forever!"

The youngest of the party, pale of face but determined, spoke up
quickly:

"I'm willin' to take the chance o' gettin' to Lost Springs," he said.

"Yuh can't make it alive through that bunch o' devils," the guard told
him.

"It's our only chance," the other returned. "I'm goin' to try.
Good-by, dad!"

It was a sad, heart-wrenching moment. There was small chance that the
two would ever see each other alive again. But father and son shook
hands and passed it over with a smile.

"Good luck, son!"

And then the younger one slipped out of the coach and was gone.

The others watched breathlessly. This movement had taken the savages
by surprise. The lad darted into the mesquites, running with head low.
Bullets buzzed about him, kicking up clouds of dust at his feet.
Arrows whistled after him. A yell went up from the Apaches.

"Will he make it?" groaned the father, in an agonized voice.

"Doubt it," said the guard.

The messenger sprinted at top speed through the brush, then dived down
into an arroyo. A score of warriors swarmed after him, firing shot
after shot from their rifles. Already the youth was out of arrow range.

The guard shaded his eyes with his hand. "He's got a chance, anyways,"
he decided.

The town of Lost Springs--if such a tiny settlement could have been
called a town--sprawled in a valley of cottonwoods, a scattering of
low-roofed adobes. To find such an oasis, after traveling the
heat-tortured wilderness to the east or the west, was such relief to
the wayfarer that few missed stopping.

There was but one public building in the place--a large building of
plastered earth which was at the same time a saloon, a store, a
gambling hall, and a meeting place for those who cared to partake of
its hospitality.

The crude sign over the narrow door read: "Garvey's Place." It was
enough. Garvey was the storekeeper, the master of the gamblers, and
the saloon owner. Lost Springs was a one-man town, and that man was
Gil Garvey. His reputation was not of