During the night, grown reckless and tired of wearing them, Black John and his companions had removed the half masks that had concealed and disfigured their countenances, and stood revealed to the prisoners in their true persons. It was an intimation to the prisoners that they could not hope to escape, and that death, or worse, awaited them. “There’s a cañon over there,” said Black John, as he studied the mustangs and their situation. “If we could herd ’em into the mouth o’ that, and then rush ’em, and drive ’em into it, we could ketch some of ’em. And we’ve got to have some new horses.” He knew the region, and knew that this cañon became choked and ended less than a mile back of its opening; so that, if the horses could be forced into it, they would fall easy victims to the mustangers. Acting on Black John’s suggestions, his men spread out, several hundred yards apart, and began to move down into the valley. Black John kept the prisoners with him, and close by him was Toby Sam. So certain were the mustangers that the horses they saw were wild ones that the only care they used was in endeavoring to ride upon them in such a way as to throw them toward the mouth of the cañon. But when the bandits had ridden so close that they began to wonder at the fact that the mustangs did not race away in fright, there was a sudden and startling transformation. An Indian appeared on the back of each of the “mustangs;” an Indian striped and painted hideously, armed with feathered lance and rifle. These redskins charged the white men, with hideous yells. Black John uttered an oath of amazement, and jerked his tired horse around. He stretched forth a hand to catch the bridle rein of the horse ridden by Lena Forest. He saw his comrades lashing their jaded animals, in efforts to escape, and saw the redskins riding upon them. An Indian chief rode toward him, with rifle uplifted. Black John dropped the bridle rein of the girl’s horse, and, drawing his revolver, he rode to meet the chief, firing upon him. He saw the chief tumble to the ground, with a bullet in his forehead. Black John was really a capable fighter, the natural leader of the wild men he grouped about him. Another Indian was coming toward him, and this Indian he shot out of the saddle. But by this time the horse ridden by the girl was galloping off at its best gait, and was really going fast, for fright gave it renewed strength. With a running leap, Black John sprang to the back of one of the Indian ponies, and then tried to catch the other. Several Indians rushing upon him compelled him to abandon his attempt to capture the second pony. He yelled defiance at them, as they shot at him and hurled their lances; and, with backward shots from his revolver, he rode away at a furious pace, following the girl. He saw that several of his men were down, that others were fighting with Indians, while still others were, like himself, riding away for safety.