t does this mean?" he gasped, getting on his hands and knees, and then
on his feet. "Who has been assassinating?"

The borderer, who, instead of helping his employer to rise, was coolly
reloading his rifle, did not immediately reply. As the shaken and somewhat
unmanned Coronado looked at him, he was afraid of him. The moonlight made
Smith's sallow, disfigured face so much more ghastly than usual, that he
had the air of a ghoul or vampyre. And when, after carefully capping his
piece, he drawled forth the word "Patchies," his harsh, croaking voice had
an unwholesome, unhuman sound, as if it were indeed the utterance of a
feeder upon corpses.

"Apaches!" said Coronado. "What! after I had made a treaty with them?"

"This un is a 'Patchie," remarked Texas, giving the nearest body a shove
with his boot. "Thar was two of 'em. They knifed one of your men. T'other
cleared, he did. I was comin' in afoot. I had a notion of suthin' goin'
on, 'n' left the critters out thar, with the rancheros, 'n' stole in. Got
in just in time to pop the cuss that had you. T'other un vamosed."

"Oh, the villains!" shrieked Coronado, excited at the thought of his
narrow escape. "This is the way they keep their treaties."

"Mought be these a'n't the same," observed Texas. "Some 'Patchies is wild,
'n' live separate, like bachelor beavers."

Coronado stooped and examined the dead Indian. He was a miserable object,
naked, except a ragged, filthy breech-clout, his figure gaunt, and his
legs absolutely scaly with dirt, starvation, and hard living of all sorts.
He might well be one of those outcasts who are in disfavor with their
savage brethren, lead a precarious existence outside of the tribal
organization, and are to the Apaches what the Texas Smiths are to decent
Americans.

"One of the bachelor-beaver sort, you bet," continued Texas. "Don't run
with the rest of the crowd."

"And there's that infernal coward of a ranchero," cried Coronado, as the
runaway sentry sneaked back to the group. "You cursed poltroon, why didn't
you give the alarm? Why didn't you fight?"

He struck the man, pulled his long hair, threw him down, kicked him, and
spat on him. Texas Smith looked on with an approving grin, and suggested,
"Better shute the dam cuss."

But Coronado was not bloodthirsty; having vented his spite, he let the
fellow go. "You saved my life," he said to Texas. "When we get back you
shall be paid for it."

At the moment he intended to present him