even; but a keen-eyed young Mexican whom she scarcely knew at
all; and a mysterious hiding-out in closed-in canons until dark before
they might follow Ramon who loved her. Annie-Many-Ponies did not
understand why all this stealthiness should be necessary, for she knew
that proof of her honorable marriage would end Luck's pursuit--supposing
he did pursue--even though his anger might live always for her. She did
not understand; and when an Indian confronts a situation which puzzles
him, you may be very sure that same Indian is going to be very, very
cautious. Annie-Many-Ponies was Indian to the middle of her bone.

CHAPTER XVII. APPLEHEAD SHOWS THE STUFF HE IS MADE OF

Lite Avery, turning to look back as they galloped up a long slope so
gradual in its rise that it seemed almost level, counted just fourteen
Indians spreading out fanwise in pursuit. He turned to Applehead with
the quiet deference in his manner that had won the old man's firm
friendship.

"What's this new move signify, boss?" he asked, tilting his head
backward. "What they spreading out like that for, when they're outa easy
rifle range?"

Applehead looked behind him, studied the new formation of their enemy,
and scowled in puzzlement. He looked ahead, where he knew the land lay
practically level before them, all sand and rabbit weed, with a little
grass here and there; to the left, where the square butte stood up
bold-faced and grim; to the right where a ragged sandstone ledge blocked
the way.

"'S some dang new trap uh theirn," he decided, his voice signifying
disgust for such methods. "Take an Injun 'n' he don't calc'late he's
fightin' 'nless he's figgurin' on gittin' yuh cornered. Mebby they got
some more cached ahead som'ers. Keep yer eye peeled, boys, 'n' shoot at
any dang thing yuh see that yuh ain't dead sure 's a rabbit weed. Don't
go bankin' on rocks bein' harmless--'cause every dang one's liable to
have an Injun layin' on his belly behind it. Must be another bunch ahead
som'ers, 'cause I know it's smooth goin' fer five miles yit. After that
they's a drop down into a rocky kinda pocket that's hard t' git out
of except the way yuh go in, account of there bein' one uh them dang
rim-rocks runnin' clean 'round it. Some calls it the Devil's Fryin'-pan.
No water ner grass ner nothin' else 'ceptin' snakes. 'N' Navvies kinda
ownin' rattlers as bein' their breed uh cats, they don't kill 'em off,
so they's a heap 'n' plenty of 'em in that basin.