Fred was compelled to do a good deal of thinking, and the conclusion he came to was the next best possible to reach.  Clearly, the wiser course was for him to remain where he was for the time being.  So long as darkness remained, it was comparatively easy for him to keep concealed, and, while the situation could not have grown any worse, with the passage of the night, the chances were that it would improve, as the way for a safe run across the exposed area would have shown itself in due time.  But it was natural that the boy should become impatient, and he easily persuaded himself that his position became more critical each moment.

He decided to make a run straight for the larger building, depending not upon concealment but upon speed.  He expected to be fired at, and probably chased by some of the Apaches, but there was a reasonable chance of his escaping both.  The distance was short, and he was sure to gain a good start at the beginning; but his main reliance was upon his being recognized by his friends, who would cover his flight.  Having decided upon this course, he did not delay its execution a moment, since delay foreboded so much.

Breathing a prayer to heaven to guide him safely, he drew in a deep breath, and, leaping full into the moonlit space, started through his fiery gauntlet.

For a second or two the tomb-like silence continued, and then he heard several hoarse, crow-like calls, which he knew were made by the Apaches.  Then came several rifle reports, but he was not injured.  It showed, however, that his flight had been discovered.  Fred had nothing to do, however, but to run, and he put on the utmost speed to which he could force himself, straining every nerve in the hope of making the log-house, which seemed to recede as he advanced.

Silence succeeded the shots and shouts, and the heart of the young fugitive was throbbing with a wild hope, when a noise caused him to look over his shoulder.  To his horror, he perceived an Indian runner on foot, and within a dozen feet, bearing down upon him with the speed of the wind.  The poor lad felt as if weighed down by a horrible nightmare, but he bent to his work with the desperation of dispair.

It was useless.

His speed was not one half as great as that of the trained Apache, who bounded forward like a panther, and the next instant griped his horny fingers in the arm of Fred, who uttered a wail, and sank like one dying.

At that moment, the sharp, penetrating crack of a rifle came from the direction of the large building, and the warrior, with an ear-splitting screech, threw up his hands, and fell backward.

“Run, you young beaver!  Thar’s a chance for you yet!”

The ringing voice of Sut Simpson, aroused the boy, who, finding himself loose from the grasp of the Indian, bounded forward again.  But he had scarcely done so, when the tramp of horses’ hoofs were heard, and a warrior, more daring than the others, sent his mustang forward with arrowy swiftness, not behind the lad, but directly in front of him, so that he was compelled to turn to one side, in the attempt to dodge him.