"But if you don't want to take a chance in the shack, why
mebby we can make Wallace's, or the Cross-O-Cross. That is, if we don't
get turned out of our way."
"We don't head for no Cross-O-Cross or Wallace's," rejoined his friend
with emphasis, "an' we won't waste no time in Powers' shack, neither;
we'll push right through as hard as we can go for Buckskin. Let them
fellers find their own hunting--our outfit comes first. An' besides
that'll mean a detour in a country fine for ambushes. We'd never get
through."
"Well, have it yore own way, then!" snapped Red. "You allus was a
hard-headed old mule, anyhow." In his heart Red knew that Hopalong was
right about Wallace's and the Cross-O-Cross.
Some time after the two punchers had quitted the scene of their trap,
several Apaches loped up, read the story of the tragedy at a glance, and
galloped on in pursuit. They had left the reservation a fortnight before
under the able leadership of that veteran of many war-trails--Black
Bear. Their leader, chafing at inaction and sick of the monotony of
reservation life, had yielded to the entreaties of a score of restless
young men and slipped away at their head, eager for the joys of raiding
and plundering. But instead of stealing horses and murdering isolated
whites as they had expected, they met with heavy repulses and were
now without the mind of their leader.
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