be a circle, the object being to get behind
his pursuer and to do some hunting on his own account. As he started to
continue on his way his quick eyes espied something on the bowlder
which made him suddenly draw rein again. Glancing to the ground he saw
the tracks made by the Apache, and he peered intently along the eastern
trail with his hand shading his eyes. The eyes were of a grayish blue,
hard and steely and cruel. They were calculating eyes, and never missed
anything worth seeing. The fierce glare of the semi-tropical sun which for
many years had daily assaulted them made it imperative that he squint
from half-closed lids, and had given his face a malevolent look. And the
characteristics promised by the eyes were endorsed by his jaw, which was
square and firm set, underlying thin, straight lips. But about his
lips were graven lines so cynical and yet so humorous as to baffle an
observer.

Raising his canteen to his lips he counted seven swallows and then,
letting it fall to his side, he picked up the object which had made
him pause. There was no surprise in his face, for he never was surprised
at anything.

As he looked at the object he remembered the rumors of the Apache war
dances and of fast-riding, paint-bedaubed "hunting parties." What had been
rumor he now knew to be a fact, and his face became even more cruel as
he realized that he was playing tag with the sheriff in the very heart
of the Apache playground, where death might lurk in any of the thorny
covers which surrounded him on all sides.

"Apache war arrow," he grunted. "Now it shore beats the devil that me and
the sheriff can't have a free rein to settle up our accounts. Somebody is
always sticking their nose in my business," he grumbled. Then he frowned
at the arrow in his hand. "That red on the head is blood," he murmured,
noticing the salient points of the weapon, "and that yellow hair means
good scalping. The thong of leather spells plunder, and it was pointing
to the east. The buck that brought it went back again, so this is to
show his friends which way to ride. He was in a hurry, too, judging from
the way he threw sand, and from them toe-prints."

He hated Apaches vindictively, malevolently, with a single purpose and
instinct, because of a little score he owed them. Once when he had managed
to rustle together a big herd of horses and was within a day's ride of a
ready market, a party of Apaches had ridden up in the night and made off
with no