ed. Perhaps it was old Geronimo whose plans he
was defeating and, if so, no precautions nor means were unjustifiable and
too mean to make use of, for Geronimo was half-brother to the devil and a
genius for warfare and slaughter, with a ferocity and cruelty cold-blooded
and consummate.

He had yet time to escape from his perilous position and meet the sheriff,
if that worthy had eluded the first war party. But his elation had the
upper hand and his brute courage was now blind to caution. He savagely
decided that his matter with the sheriff could wait and that he would
take care of the war parties first, since there was more honor in fighting
against odds. The two Winchesters and his own Sharps, not to consider
the four Colt's, gave him many shots without having to waste time in
reloading, and he drew assurance from the past that he placed his shots
quickly and with precision. He could put up a magnificent fight in the
chaparral, shifting his position after each shot, and he could hug the
ground where the trunks of the vegetation were thickest and would prove
an effective barrier against random shots. His wits were keen, his legs
nimble, his eyesight and accuracy above doubt, and he had no cause to
believe that his strategy was inferior to that of his foes. There would be
no moon for two nights, and he could escape in the darkness if hunger
and thirst should drive him out. Here he had struck, and here he would
strike again and again, and, if he fell, he would leave behind him such
a tale of fighting as had seldom been known before; and it pleased his
vanity to think of the amazement the story would call forth as it was
recounted around the campfires and across the bars of a country larger
than Europe. He did not realize that such a tale would die if he died and
would never be known. His was the joy of a master of the game, a virile,
fearless fighting machine, a man who had never failed in the playing of
the many hands he had held in desperate games with death. He was not
going to die; he was going to win and leave dying for others.

CHAPTER III

THE SHERIFF FINDS THE ORPHAN

The day dragged wearily along for the man in the chaparral, and when the
sun showed that it was still two hours from the meridian he leaped to
his feet, rifle in hand, and peered intently to the west, where he
had seen a fast-riding horseman flit between two chaparrals which stood
far down on the western end of the Cimarron Trail. Without p