Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 5, 1928 — page 70: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

636 With the ease of a supple young warrior, the old Indian swung lightly into the saddle, touched his moccasined heels to the stallion’s glossy sides, and galloped southward along Calito’s dusty Main Street, flanked by its low buildings of board or adobe. As soon as the last house lay be- hind, a red flannel Apache headband took the place of Yuma ‘Tom’s eagle feather. His shirt, trousers, and blan- ket were made into a roll, tied behind the saddle, and he rode on—a wiry little red man, naked save for head- band, breechcloth, with sheathed knife dangling from its waist thongs, and fringed, knee-length combination moc- casins and leggings. A wiry little old man on a gallop- ing big stallion whose unshod hoofs seemed scarcely to touch the ground. An hour later, having verified his suspicions as to which way the outlaws were traveling, Yuma Tom, from the hills ten miles south of Calito, sent up a smoke signal, which Sheriff Hun- ter. deciphered as he stood on the jail’s flat roof. Signs and tracks had, as he rode along through the low hills, told Yuma Tom much that he wanted to know. Now, in the morning sunlight, afoot, bent over, gaze fixed on the ground, and with Red Gold following doglike behind him, he moved slowly along through the low brush and cactus at the base of a rocky hill. He had found something decidedly interesting. Something that probably would haye escaped the eyes of the white man altogether, and very likely those of even the most experienced trackers of his own tribe. A little farther ahead, as he studied the footprints of a man, close beside the hoofmarks he had been following, he nodded. ‘The rider who had dis- mounted to rearrange his saddle blan- ket was a Mexican. The animal he had been riding was a mule. And what a mule she was! Fast, in- telligent, and not a great while before, ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. when Red Gold ran with his band, she had often raced along in the lead when danger threatened, while the mighty stallion thundered at the rear of the herd, ‘giving encouragement to the slower animals and nipping the flanks of the laggards to make them run faster. Yuma Tom was not mistaken in thinking that he recognized those neat- looking hoofprints. He had seen them too many times before the mule was captured by Jim Bentley, a rancher, who proudly spoke of her as “ my An- naliza, the dog-gonedest, smartest crit- ter in the whole Southwest.” Every once in awhile Yuma T’om’s experienced eyes saw a break in the print of the outline of the right fore- hoof. He had noticed only the week before, when visiting Bentley’s ranch, that.a piece of Annaliza’s right fore- hoof had been chipped off and that the tracks she left in the corral were the same as those he was now following. In stealing the fleet-footed, dark gray mule, the horse thieves had shown good judgment, of its kind. Ouite a number of the horses run off had earlier been in the wild band led by Red Gold and Annaliza. They would remember her and feel at ease with her at hand, even on a strange range. Within a very short time she would again be a leader to them all. What horse thief had been clever enough to think of Annaliza? Yuma Tom guessed at once it was Blas Can- nales, a one-eyed, brown-faced, heavy set Mexican with a bad scar across the bridge of his nose, and who was ten years the little red man’s junior. ‘Cannales’s nickname was the Chihua- hua Fox. Yuma ‘Tom was often called by white settlers the old Apache Fox. So, as the little red man mounted and rode on, he said grimly to himself: “ It is very possible that the Indian fox will have to match his wits against those of the Mexican.” It was five o’clock in the afternoon before Yuma Tom saw the dust cloud €om Ebooks (E@)