When the Apache was limp--wise men made very sure that Apaches were really dead--the Ranger stood up shakily and groped for the entrance. A stone slid down into the canyon and he hurled himself forward out of the cavern. As he gained the middle of the canyon, running like a quarter-horse, there was thud after thud of feet dropping from the rocks to the hard ground. He ran on his toes, hoping that he could make camp sufficiently ahead of these fleet Indians to warn Rutter; hoping, too, that Rutter had the horses together, had not taken them out onto the flat to graze. He ran as he never had run in his life. At last he sensed the camp just ahead. And from it came a rifle-shot, then another. The bullets sang past him perilously close. “It’s--Ware’s Kid!” he gasped. “Injuns--comin’!” “Thought yuh was one of ’em!” grunted Rutter, with no particular alarm evident in his heavy voice. “How close?” “Right behind! No time to saddle! Fork ’em bareback!” He paused only to snatch his precious carbine from its scabbard on the saddle, then scooped up the bight of the lariat with which the stallion was picketed. He vaulted upon the stallion’s back. Muffled sound in the darkness nearby told that Rutter was following his example. Up the canyon the darkness was suddenly punctuated in a half-dozen places by orange flames. Bullets thudded into the ground, into rock walls, around the white men. The firing was a continuous roll, its rumbling multiplied by the canyon walls. As usual the Apaches had rifles as good as any in that country, better than those of the Army. Rutter swore venomously. Ware’s Kid had slashed the lariat with his belt knife. Rutter, apparently, had done the same. For when the black stallion surged ahead, toward the safety of the open land, Rutter was close behind. They galloped furiously for perhaps half an hour. The moon came out and flooded the desert with a white light that reminded the Ranger of Billy Conant’s New Fashion Saloon in El Paso when the electric lights were turned on. Being lighter and, perhaps, the better rider, Ware’s Kid led. He had lost a hundred-dollar saddle, but he was phlegmatic about that. It was all in the game. They were lucky--he especially--to be riding away with their hair. A sudden groan from Rutter aroused him from his thoughts and he looked backward under his arm in time to see the big man slide sideways off his gelding and roll over upon his side. * * * * * Mechanically Ware’s Kid whirled the stallion and glared half-a-dozen ways at once in search of the assassin. But the broad expanse of greasewood and cacti lay quiet in the incandescent moonlight. So he rode back to Rutter and slid to the sand. “Got me!” Rutter gasped. “Back yonder. Thought I--could make it--back to the ranch--see--my girl--but----” “Let’s see,” grunted Ware’s Kid practically.