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Rh warriors using their spears as goads, the burro bucking under its load, firmly hitched by Harvey's expert roping, but threatening to give way under the frenzied jumping.

"Thet's Pete," said Harvey. "Quietest of the four of 'em. But he don't like them sticking their spears into him. By Jinks—hol' on—don't shoot fer jest a minit, ennyway!"

"Wot's the hidea?" said Larkin. "Pete's got most of the grub."

"No, he ain't," grinned Harvey. "I shifted loads this mornin' jest becos he had more brains than the rest of 'em an' warn't so apt to stampede. Now, dern 'em, look at thet! Whoopee!"

The Indians, who seemed to consider themselves unseen and therefore immune, since no fire came from the cave, tried to round up the burro which attempted to bolt back up-cañon and nearly succeeded. Six of them ringed him about and one, who boasted a saddle, threw a rawhide lariat that settled fair and square over Pete's long ears and hammerhead although he tossed and shook the latter as he felt the falling circle. The warrior snubbed the end of the lariat to his saddlehorn, his pony braced, and Pete, charging madly, was fairly swept off his feet.

He came down on his side with a bump that was lost in a roar and a cloud of smoke and dust and swift-stabbing orange flame. When it cleared there was no sign of the burro or its load, no sign of three of the Apaches and their ponies, only a deep gash torn in the