mountain pass.

Some of the men carried Winchesters, but for the most part they were
armed with six-guns. Now that they were actually on the way, the men
seemed eager for the battle. Perhaps Kid Wolf's cool and determined
leadership had something to do with it.

Young Robbins reached over and clasped the Texan's hand.

"I'll never forget this, Mr. Kid Wolf," he said, tears in his eyes.
"If it wasn't for you----"

"Call me 'Kid,'" said the Texan, flashing him a smile. "We'll save yo'
fathah and the men in the stage if we can. Anyway, we'll make it hot
fo' those Apaches."

After a few minutes of fast going, they could hear the faint crackling
of gunfire ahead of them, carried on the torrid wind. Robbins
brightened, for this meant that some survivors still remained on their
feet. Kid Wolf, experienced in Indian warfare, understood the
situation at once, and ordered his men to scatter and come in on the
Indians from all sides.

"Robbins," he said, "I want yo' with me. Yo' two," he went on,
singling out a couple of the posse, "ride in from the east. The rest
of yo' come in from the west and south. Make every shot count, fo' if
we don't scattah the Apaches at the first chahge, we will be at a big
disadvantage!"

It was a desperate situation, with the odds nearly five to one against
them. Reaching the pass, they could look down on the battle from the
cover of the mesquites. From the overturned stage, thin jets of fire
streaked steadily, and a pall of white smoke hung over it like a cloud.
From the brush, other gun flashes answered the fire. Occasionally a
writhing brown body could be seen, crawling from point to point. The
thicket seemed to be alive with them.

Kid Wolf listened for a moment to the faint popping of the guns. Then
he raised his hand in a signal.

"Let's go!" he sang out.

A second later, Blizzard was pounding down the pass like a snowstorm
before the wind.

The leader of this band of murderous Apaches was a youthful warrior
named Bear Claw, the son of the tribal chief. Peering at the coach
from his post behind a clump of paloverde, his cruel face was lighted
by a grin of satisfaction. From time to time he gave a hoarse order,
and at his bidding, his braves would creep up or fall back as the
occasion demanded.

Bear Claw was in high good humor, for he saw that the ambushed victims
in the stage could not hope to hold out much longer. Only three
remained alive in the coach, and s