“They are my friends,” she said to Luis and ran through the outer room to the front doorway. “Here, ‘Smooth’!” she called. “It is all right. I am in the shack.” Luis came and stood just behind her shoulder. It was not yet so dark but that features might be recognized at short distances. The two saw Kreff riding forward with Sam and Jake. Luis layed a hand on Wichita’s arm. “They are Cheetim’s friends,” he said. “I know that first one well.” He brushed by her, his revolver in his hand. “No!” she cried, seizing his arm. “They are my own men. The first one is my foreman.” “Here’s one of ’em, boys!” cried Kreff as he recognized Luis. “Here’s the damned Greaser that brought me thet lyin’ letter from ‘Dirty.’ Git out o’ the way, Chita!” and leaping from his horse he ran forward. “Stop!” cried Luis. His weapon was levelled at Kreff’s stomach. “This boy is all right!” exclaimed Wichita. “Put your guns away, all of you.” Slowly and with no great alacrity Kreff and Mariel returned their revolvers to their holsters. The other two men followed their example. “What’s happened here?” demanded Kreff. “Has anyone hurted you, Chita?” “No, I’m all right,” she replied. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Get your horse, Luis, and take the message that I gave you. I’ll be starting back for the ranch now. I’ll be waiting there. Tell him that I shall be waiting there for him.” Kreff looked on, puzzled, as Wichita gave her instructions to Luis. He saw the youth mount and ride up the canyon side. Then he turned to the girl. “Where’s he goin’?” he demanded. “Who you goin’ to wait fer?” “For Shoz-Dijiji,” she replied. “He did not kill Dad—it was Cheetim. Come along, now; I want to go home.” Chapter Nineteen The Last War Trail =T=HROUGH the descending dark an Apache rode along the war trail, following the tracks of an enemy. He saw that the man ahead of him had been urging his mount at perilous speed down the rocky gorge, but the Apache did not hurry. He was a young man. Before him stretched a lifetime in which to bring the quarry to bay. To follow recklessly would be to put himself at a disadvantage, to court disaster, defeat, death. Such was not the way of an Apache. Doggedly, stealthily he would stalk the foe. If it took a lifetime, if he must follow him across a world, what matter? In the end he would get him. What was that, just ahead? In the trail, looming strange through the dusk, lay something that did not harmonize with the surroundings. At first he could not be quite certain what it was, but that it did not belong there was apparent to his trained senses.