The scouting party of Mexican cavalry reported by Ping were few in number, and were a long distance from any support. They had been willing enough to follow the movements of a solitary Indian boy, but were not disposed for a skirmish with the braves who now rode out of the forest behind Tan-tan-e-o-tan. There would have been no brush at all if it had not been for the revengeful tumult in the heart of Ping, and for the fact that he was so splendidly armed and mounted.

The men in uniform yonder belonged to the troops who had slain Kah-go-mish, and Ping shouted, in Apache, "I am the son of a great chief!"

He disobeyed a warning whoop of Tan-tan-e-o-tan, for he was bent upon riding within range, and Dick bore him swiftly onward. All the warlike thoughts and hopes which make up the thoughts of an Indian boy were dancing wildly around in his fevered brain. He was a warrior, facing the ancient enemies of his race, the men who had killed his father.

Alas for Ping! Range for him was also range for the now retreating cavalry, and his one fruitless shot was replied to by a volley."Zst-ping!" he exclaimed, involuntarily shouting his own nickname, as the bullets whizzed past him, and then he felt suddenly sick and dizzy. One ball had not gone by.

Dick obeyed the rein and wheeled towards the forest, but after that he was left to his own guidance. Ping was not unconscious, and he clung proudly, courageously to his rifle—Cal's repeater. He held on to the pommel of the saddle with one hand, but he hardly knew more than that he was riding the "heap pony"—riding, riding, riding—somewhere.

Tan-tan-e-o-tan alone followed, at a considerable distance, the wounded son of Kah-go-mish, the other braves dashing away at once to join the band upon its eagerly pushed retreat into the mountains.

Under the shade of the forest trees, near the waning camp-fire at which Wah-wah-o-be had cooked his breakfast, lay poor Cal. For him, apparently, all hope had departed, for he had vainly struggled to loosen the forked stakes which held down his hands and his feet.

"I've no chance to pry," he groaned, "or I could do it;" but then that is the very reason why the red-men fasten their prisoners in that manner. Any man can pull up such a stick, if he can get a pry at it or even a direct pull.

"I shall die of hunger and thirst and mosquito bites," he said. "It's worse than killing one right off. It's as bad as fire could be!"

Just then he heard the sound of a horse's feet, and he drew his breath hard as he listened. Was it one of the Apaches come to torture him? Could it be a Mexican? It was a moment of awful expectation, and then he exclaimed, "Dick!"

Dick had come, and he had found his way to the camp he had left, and he had brought home his young rider, but that was all, for Ping reeled in the saddle and then fell heavily to the earth. He was never to become a war-chief of the Mescaleros. His first skirmish had been his last.

"Dick!" again shouted Cal, and the faithful fellow at once walked over to where his master lay. He seemed to understand that something was wrong with Cal, for he pawed the ground and neighed and whinnied as if asking, "What does this mean?" Dick's eyes had an excited look, and his ears were moving backward and forward, nervously, when again there was a sound of coming hoofs. Cal raised his head and saw Tan-tan-e-o-tan spring from his horse, stoop and examine poor Ping.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "Heap dead!" A whoop followed instantly—a fierce and angry whoop.

One of Dick's pawing forefeet had been unintentionally put down close by Cal's left hand. It was a quick thought, a lightning flash of hope, which led Cal to grasp the hoof with all the strength he had.

Dick lifted his foot, and oh, how Cal's wrist hurt him, in the sudden, hard wrench that followed! It was his last chance for life and he held on, and the whoop of Tan-tan-e-o-tan was given as he saw the forked stake jerked clean out of the ground.

Forward, with another yell, sprang the angry savage, drawing his knife as he came, but that screech was too much for the nerves of the red mustang. Out went his iron-shod heels, and there was a sharp thud as one of them struck between the eyes of Tan-tan-e-o-tan.

"Hurrah for Dick!" shouted Cal, as his enemy rolled over and over upon the ferns and leaves. "That fellow won't get up again."

Cal could now toil away with his lame hand to set the other at liberty. After that he was glad to find his knife in his pocket, for one of his ankle stakes refused to come up, and had to be whittled through. He worked with feverish, frantic energy, and he barely finished his task in time. He had only to whistle for Dick. His whole body seemed to tremble as he hurried forward to regain the belt and rifle which Wah-wah-o-be had so proudly given to Ping. The-boy-whose-ear-pushed-away-a-piece-of-lead would never need them or the "heap pony" any more.

Cal did not mount, but led Dick away into the cover of the forest.

"We should be seen if I rode away now," he said to Dick.

Hardly was he well concealed behind dense bushes before, as he peered out, he saw Wah-wah-o-be, followed closely by Crooked Nose, gallop into the deserted camp. She had already heard that Ping was wounded, but not how badly, and she threw herself upon the ground beside him with a great cry. Crooked Nose bent for one moment over Tan-tan-e-o-tan, and the Apache death-whoop rang twice, long and mournfully, through the forest. It was followed by fierce and angry utterances, among which Cal caught something about Mexicans, and then Crooked Nose looked sharply around him."Ugh!" he exclaimed. "Heap Pony gone. Pull Stick gone! Big medicine. Bad manitou."

Cal's second escape was plainly a greater mystery than the first had been. It was as Crooked Nose declared, and he was a boy whose medicine enabled him to get out of tight places.

Cal decided that it was time for him to get away, lest others should come, for he did not know how fast the band was retreating. He had a thought, too, of meeting the Mexicans who had wounded Ping. He picked his way carefully, stealthily, among the trees, followed faithfully by Dick, and at the outer border of the forest he mounted. No Mexicans were in sight, nor any Indians, and he knew that beyond the broken ground before him lay the desert. What he did not know was that his father and all who were with him were already two days' march on their homeward journey.

"I can find my way by the sun and by the stars," he said to himself. "I've had my breakfast. Dick can have some grass by and by. I may kill game on the way. Never mind if I don't. Santa Lucia is off there to the northeast. Now, Dick, this is your business. How many miles can you put behind you between this and sunset?"

Dick pawed the ground, but he said nothing. Cal examined his cartridges; filled two or three empty chambers in his rifle and revolver; tightened the girth of his saddle a little; fixed his belt right—

"Dick!" he shouted. "Now for Santa Lucia!"

Away went the red mustang, and if any Indians had followed him, they would have lost the race.