He was very near. It was almost certain that before long he would discover whatever might be living near him if it moved. It would be useless, therefore, for Red Wolf to try to escape on foot that he might warn the camp. It would be even greater folly to go down into the sink-hole after his mustang. It was hardly safe, at first, to risk the slight motion required in fitting an arrow to the string. He must wait, he thought. But if he did, what about the Texans if Big Knife should lie down and go to sleep? Even that small party of Comanche warriors might dash in and take a scalp or stampede the horses. They were very dangerous fellows on a warpath or prowling around an enemy's camp. "Ugh!" exclaimed the Comanche, wheeling his horse and lowering his lance. Red Wolf's mustang had not been at all comfortable down there in the dark. He had picked grass and he had stepped up and down at the end of his tether. He had heard hoofs go by. Now he was aware of the presence of another horse near him, and he sent up short neighs of inquiry. He uttered the mustang words for,-- "Hullo, pony, who are you?" The Comanche at once responded,-- "Where are you? Hey?" "Horse in hole!" exclaimed the warrior. "Where Texan? Where Lipan?" He listened a moment, and again the animals spoke to each other. "Ugh!" said the Comanche. "Texan go away and leave pony. Go take him. Heap brave!" It was a piece of reckless daring, indeed, to go down alone into that blind hollow. There might be something much more dangerous than a pony lurking there. Again assuring himself, however, that he was a great brave and afraid of nothing, he sprang to the ground. He tethered his own pony, laid aside his bow and lance and club and drew his knife. He adjusted his shield upon his left arm, and then he was ready. His worst peril was not in the hole. While he was making his rapid preparations Red Wolf made his own. His arrow was in its place now, and he was almost lying flat at the corner of the boulder. There was not light enough for long-range archery, but now the Comanche brave stepped stealthily forward, knife in hand, his shield up, and his short, hard breathing testifying his intense excitement. He slipped along past the rock. "Twang" went the Lipan boy's bowstring, and he sprang to his feet, drawing his own knife as he did so,--the splendid present of Bowie, the white hero. Loud, fierce, agonized, was the yell of the stricken warrior, but even in his agony he whirled around to face his unexpected assailant. He had strength yet, for he sprang at Red Wolf like a wounded wildcat. Away darted the son of Castro, but his enemy, a man of size and muscle, was close behind him. But that he was already mortally hurt he would have made short work of the young bowman.