been alive.

"None of them suspect that I've got such a thing about me, and that
gives me the better chance," was his very sensible conclusion, as he
endeavored to put on an expression of blissful serenity.

When the sun was fairly up, the fifty Apache warriors were galloping in
a direct line toward the south, Lone Wolf at their head, and Ned
Chadmund riding at his side. The lad had made several inquiries of his
leader, but the latter repelled him so savagely that he wisely held his
peace. He supposed the Indians were going southward toward their
village. He remembered hearing his father speak of Lone Wolf as dwelling
pretty well to the southward, and that he had pronounced him to be one
of the most dangerous leaders among the fierce tribes of the Southwest.

The Apaches were now in a mountainous region, following a sort of trail
that was generally wide enough to permit a dozen to ride abreast if they
wished to do so. Occasionally it was rough and precipitous, winding in
and out, and now and then difficult to travel; but the wiry little
mustangs went along as unhesitatingly as mountain goats. Although they
were among the mountains, at times the air was oppressively hot, not a
particle of breeze reaching them.

It was little past noon when the party drew rein in a place very similar
to that wherein they encamped the night before. As the mustangs came to
a halt, their riders leaped to the ground, and, turning them over to the
care of a half dozen of their number, they refreshed themselves at a
stream running near at hand, the water of which was clear and cold, and
equally inviting to man and beast. Ned climbed down from his horse,
apparently with great difficulty and pain.

"May I go and get a drink?" he asked of Lone Wolf.

"Go," was the savage reply; "am I a dog to help you?"

"No; you're a dog without helping me," muttered the lad as he limped
away toward the wood, seeking a point a short distance below where the
others were helping themselves.

It took but a minute to reach a spot where for the time he was beyond
observation.

"The hour has come to make a stroke for freedom!" he exclaimed, suiting
the action to the word.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE FLIGHT.

Ned had enough sense not to undertake to run away from the Apaches until
there was a reasonably good chance of succeeding. He had played the game
of lameness so well that he had secured considerable liberty thereby;
and when, therefore, he went limpi