For several years Clark impatiently bided his time. To him the mills of the gods were, indeed, grinding slowly, but they were grinding, and the time was approaching when the grist should be delivered. In the meantime the Kid was continuing to lengthen his trail of blood. Now here, now there, the wily outlaw was ever at his work. A murder here today, he is heard of one hundred miles away tomorrow, leaving a trail behind him marked by where he had changed his mount by the stealing of a new one at some ranch, leaving his old one dead, in exchange. This was his practice, killing the animal he might leave by stabbing in the side, thus avoiding the sacrifice of any of his ammunition, which he could ill afford to lose. Being an outlaw with his own people, he found it difficult to replenish his belt. Kid Nears End of His Trail of Blood But at last the end of his career of robbery and bloodshed is approaching. The opportunity that Clark has been waiting all these years is nigh at hand. The Apache Kid’s race is about run. Clark had been away from home, and when returning, on February 4, 1894, passing by the house of Emmerson, a neighbor, about a mile from his own home, he noticed the tracks of three Indians about the house, and going inside, found they had robbed it of its contents. Going on home, he found his partner, Scanlan, whom the Indians had not disturbed, and said to him, “Scanlan, your old friend the Kid has been around again.” Soon after, Clark, taking his gun, went out of the house for the purpose of “scouting the country around” and seeing whether he might get sight of the Indians. Going to the top of a peak near by, where he could overlook the surrounding country without unduly exposing himself, he awaited events, not realizing what an approaching one should mean to himself, and to an old enemy on whom he had vowed vengeance for the death of his old-time partner, and that this event would mark an era in a life ever filled with its dangers, not one of which had ever been shirked, but always bravely met. The opportunity for which he had waited, and in his way--a way probably familiar only to the “old scout”--had prayed for, was but a few short hours away. The language of his prayers, except for its fervency, may not have been up to the orthodox standard, but he knew what he wanted, and in asking for it used the language with which he was familiar--the language of the desert and the mountain, the camp-fire and the trail. Closing Act in Great Drama