A Red Hero =D=AWN was breaking as the last of the renegades crept past the camp of the enemy, where the troopers, already astir an hour, stood to horse. It was known that the camp of the renegades lay just below them, surrounded. A sudden, surprise sortie at dawn would either overwhelm them or send them scattering into the arms of other troops stationed to cut off their retreat in any direction. It began to look as though Geronimo and his band were to be wiped out or captured at last. Two scouts had gone down toward the camp of the Apaches to investigate. The commanding officer was impatiently awaiting their return. Presently it would be too light for a surprise attack. The officers were congratulating their commander and themselves upon the nice work that had brought old Geronimo into a trap at last—a trap from which he could not conceivably escape. They were also talking about the pinto stallion that had wandered up to their picket line during the night. “I know that pony, sir,” said Lieutenant King to the commanding officer, “and I know the Indian who owns him—he saved my life once. If it is possible, sir, I should like very much to take the pony back to Arizona with me. There is a rancher there whom I believe would be very glad to have him and take care of him.” “Well, it’s not exactly regular, Mr. King, but perhaps the pony was stolen from this rancher—eh?” the C. O. grinned. “Perhaps,” agreed King. “Very well, you may return it to its owner.” “Thank you, sir!” “Here are the scouts,” said the C. O. “Return to your troops, and be ready to move out at once!” Two Apaches approached the commanding officer. They wore the red head-bands of government scouts. “Well?” demanded the officer. “Did you find Geronimo?” “Him gone,” said one of the scouts. “Gone! Where in hell has he gone?” “Mebby so there,” he pointed to the canyon behind them. “Hell! He couldn’t have gone there. What do you suppose we been doing here?” “Me no sabe,” replied the Apache. “Him gone—there!” “How do know?” “Me follow tracks.” “You sure?” “Sure!” “How long?” “Mebby so half hour.” The officer turned to his chief of scouts. “Did you hear that? Slipped through our fingers again. The old devil! Get after him at once. Pick up the trail. Keep after him. We’ll follow. If you get in touch with him don’t attack. Just keep in touch with him until we come up.” “Yes, sir!” Two scouts preceded Geronimo’s little band up the canyon that would take them to the summit and over into Chihuahua. Precipitous walls hemmed them in on both sides, effectually keeping them to the bottom of the canyon. Here the going was good; but, also, it would be good going for horses and no escape for the fleeing renegades should they be overtaken. They were marching rapidly, needing no urging, for each of them knew the life and death necessity for speed.