There was just enough of bewildered, leaderless indecision to settle the matter. The sabres swept flashingly around the squad of redskins, and all they had to do was to surrender. It is a mere novelist's blunder to suppose and to write that red men have not sense enough to give it up when there is no use in fighting any more. They can do it as readily as any white man in the world, and the reason why they do not do it more frequently is because they generally keep a good chance to run away, and make a treaty afterwards as to what presents they are to have for making peace. There was no time given the young braves to strike a bargain. They were all disarmed, and then, dreadfully to their disgust, they were all dismounted and tied up. "The plunder'll do well enough where it is," said Captain Grover, as he detailed Garry and a guard of four men to watch the prisoners. "If any of those chaps gets loose you'll have to shoot him. Men, by fours, left! Forward!" The pony-rider who escaped was sure to carry the news of the disaster, and of the arrival of the blue-coats, but several things could happen before the Apache chief received it. He had no spy-glass, and he was eagerly waiting such information as might be obtained by the brave standing face to face with Yellow Pine. That very cunning Apache found himself talking under difficulties. He could see distinctly that there were more than a few rifles at the barrier, but he could get no farther. The tall pale-face in front of him kept back any other information than that all the Apaches in this world or any other would be killed in case of an attack then and there. He even referred to Sile's exploit as an example, and to the lesson given by Two Arrows to the scout, and all the wild blood in the Apache brave was set boiling by that somewhat imprudent reference. He was a large, powerfully built warrior, and he had been as truthful as could be expected when he signified that he was unarmed. He kept up the idea of a "flag of truce" talk until sure he could gain no more by it, and then he uttered a shrill whoop and stooped, quick as a flash, for a long knife hidden in his leggings. He meant to carry back the scalp of Yellow Pine as a trophy of that conversation, but had not asked anybody how well Pine could box. The latter had no time to draw any weapon except his fist, but that was a hard one, and it struck the Apache on the side of his head as he was rising, knife in hand. Over and over he rolled, while Pine threw himself flat upon the earth, at the same moment digging both hands into the pockets of his pantaloons. His enemy recovered himself instantly and sprang to his feet with another whoop, lifting his long, glittering knife for a rush upon the prostrate pale-face. It might have been a perilous rush, for Pine's hands came right out of his pockets, and each held a short-barrelled "Derringer" pistol, ready cocked. They are terrible weapons, but the miner had no occasion to use either of them.