Then, as suddenly as he had broken out, the cowpuncher became quiet again, and, seating himself on the midship thwart, idly started to twiddle his empty six-shooter round his forefinger, whilst Jack watched him with anxious eyes. Presently he moved again, and crouched down cautiously in the bottom of the boat, taking infinite care to keep under the shelter of the boat's side, as if fearing an attack of some sort from the sea. Then, clutching Jack by the arm, he pointed out to starboard with his cocked revolver. "The Apaches, Jack!" he whispered, "the Apaches!" "They're only squaws and papooses," said Jack quietly, wishing to humour him. "Squaws an' papooses? Air you locoed? Why, they're all bucks an' out on the war-path! Chucks! thar's nothin' peaceful about them redskins; they're painted for war an' is shore out for blood." "Perhaps you're right, Broncho," returned Jack, in his weak voice. "We'll lie low below these rocks," pointing to the boat's side. "They'll go right by us if we lie quiet." "That's the only play, I allow," assented the cowpuncher as he lay motionless alongside Jim. "Though if they hit our trail," he continued, indicating the path of the moon, "which our tracks is easy for a twelve-moon babe to read, they won't give no notice, but just jump in with war-whoops and bullets toomultuous, which same deal is mighty likely to relieve us of our scalps complete." Then he relapsed into silence, concentrating all his attention upon the imaginary Apaches, as he crouched in supposed concealment beside Jim, the empty revolver in his hand. So the night wore on. Jim rambled with husky whispers as he tossed restlessly, unheeded by the light-headed cowpuncher, who occasionally communed with himself in a hoarse undertone. "Thar's that ha'r-brained shorthorn Derringer Jack juttin' his chunky body over the skyline. Some gents ain't got the savvy of a pra'rie-dog, but I always allowed Jack had sense enough to come in out o' the wet, though he's some prone to overplay his hand by prancin' into trouble too gay an' heedless." A grim smile crossed the face of the rolling-stone as he listened. For a few minutes Broncho remained silent, then broke out again oracularly with the single sentence, "Let every gent skin his own eel!" Then all of a sudden he thought he was out on the plains again, vainly trying to stop a cattle-stampede. "Turn that muley, Texas; throw a gun in his face! Hey, you point-men, what in hell'r you doin'? Hold 'em, can't you? Now, Larry, stop actin' smart like a fool-kid. Jump in an' hustle. This here's the hell of a run! Ride, boys, an' drift 'em together!" Broncho was back again, the hard-working foreman of a trail outfit. "Jimminy! here's a mesquite thicket!" he went on, and bending his head low between his shoulders, he clasped the thwart with both arms; for a second he remained thus, and then rambled on: