First there were fifteen or twenty mounted warriors, as an advance guard. Then there followed about one hundred and fifty other warriors, all with rifles, and stripped and painted to fight. Then there trooped and jostled a large procession of squaws and children, mostly afoot, herding a tremendous bunch of loose horses and mules, and packing camp stuff.

There must have been five hundred squaws and children, and six or seven thousand animals, not counting dogs! A small guard of warriors were riding the rear flanks of the march. It certainly was a big outbreak of the San Carlos Chiricahuas, and they were hot-footing for Mexico!

Whew! Where were the police and the soldiers, then? Jimmie swept the landscape for sign of them, and saw nothing. He clapped his glasses closed. His eyes leaped to the nearest telegraph pole. His duty was clear. He ought to send word at once to Camp Thomas.

Just as he was about to swing down, tie his horse, and climb the pole, he sighted, with a last glance of his eye, four Indians swimming the river below, with their ponies. Either he had been seen, or else they were coming to cut the wire. Maybe both.

Already the foremost was urging his pony up out of the water’s edge, to the bank on this side. Of course they had seen him, as he sat! But he still had a chance to race back, to the fort, and give the alarm. No; that would lose an hour, or more. Likely enough the wire from San Carlos to the fort had been cut; at the rate that those Chiricahuas were traveling, every minute was precious if they were to be headed off.

He ought to climb the pole and tap the wire. If he could not raise Thomas in the one direction, he might raise Grant, in the other. But he’d have to work fast. Lives were at stake, for no settler could stop those bronc’s.

Jimmie resolutely tumbled off his horse, in a jiffy strapped on his climbing irons, left his horse, and his rifle in scabbard (a rifle would be of no use up there), and ran for the pole. And this was a brave act, for he might easily have run, horseback, in another direction—back to Camp Thomas, or to hide in the farther timber until the Indians had gone after cutting the wire.

At top speed he shinned up the pole, and digging in, rapidly unshipped his line-man’s little sending kit, in order to break in on the wire and call the Camp Thomas operator. He did not dare to watch the movements of those four Indians.

No doubt the four were coming full tilt, up from the river and through the brush; but if he tried to watch them he would be nervous and make false motions. The thing for him to do was to clamp on to that line, and get there first. That required swift, sure work, and all his attention. So he endeavored not to think of the four Indians.

Never had he felt so high in the air, and so much exposed. Almost any other pole would have been better, but none had been as near and convenient. He made a splendid mark, like a hawk roosting in a dead tree.

“Ping!” A bullet! They were shooting at him! “Pung!” That was the report, following. “Whing!” “Pung!” But he must not mind the warning. He needed only a minute more. As he worked rapidly his fingers seemed all thumbs. He did not dare to take his eyes off them. “Thud-bang!” The bullet shook the pole, and the report was so close that the shooter could not be far away. He heard shrill yells, somewhere below——

“Whack-bang!” A heavy hammer fell on the top of his shoulder, and well nigh knocked him from his perch. He clung desperately, wrapping himself tighter—his shoulder stung and was oddly warm—but it was his left shoulder, he was on the wire at last, and was sending with his right hand.

“D,” “D,” “D,” he called Camp Thomas.

There was thud of hoofs below, a chorus of angry yells—“Whish-bang!” a bullet fanned his cheek—“Ping-bang!” another cut a large sliver from the pole close to his neck—“D,” “D,” “D,” he kept calling, even while he glanced aside.

The four Indians were into the road and tearing for him, rifles leveled upward—he saw smoke, heard the bullets—but the Thomas operator had answered.

“I—I D,” “I—I D.”

Now for the ten seconds’ grace!

“Injuns out. Big band——”

Camp Thomas broke.

“Repeat. Who are you?”

“Too nervous. Steady, boy,” cautioned Jimmie, to himself. He was not an expert operator, anyway. But this was a crisis.

He hastily started to repeat. The four Indians were right at the foot of the pole, yelling at him.

“Get down, get down!” they ordered, furiously, in Apache. He gazed full into their upturned, painted faces—and into the muzzles of their rifles; and he grinned sickly and continued to send.

“Injuns out. Big band. Sig., Dunn. Injuns out. Big Band. Sig., Dunn. Injuns out. Big band. Sig., Dunn.”

Would Camp Thomas never O. K.? Would those muzzles below never belch their balls and rip him and hurl him headlong?

“No tiras (Don’t shoot)!” suddenly yelped one of the voices, from one of the painted faces.

Nah-che! And Chato (Flat-nose), too! The muzzles were lowered—the scowling Chato’s last of all.

“Come down, chi-kis-n,” ordered Nah-che.

But Jimmie only shook his head, while he worked his key.

“Come down or we shoot you down,” blared Flat-nose; and he drew a deadly bead.

But Thomas had broken in at last.

“O. K. Where?” ticked Camp Thomas.

“Ash Flats. Head east. Bronc’s and squaws.”

“O. K. Get off wire,” answered Camp Thomas.

“Bang!” sounded Chato’s rifle, and Jimmie’s little instrument flew into fragments. But Jimmie cared not, now. He went sliding painfully down; landed right in the midst of the four Indians, staggered—two of them were afoot, waiting for him—they sprang at him, and wrenched his revolver from its holster. They acted as though they were going to kill him, or take him along, when Nah-che interfered.

“No!” he ordered, while Chato scowled. But Nah-che was obeyed, because he was a grown warrior and son of Cochise. “What were you doing, chi-kis-n?” he demanded.

“I talked with Camp Thomas,” answered Jimmie, defiantly.

“What did you say?”

“I said that the Chiricahua were running away.”

The three other Indians murmured angrily. The two young bucks besides Nah-che and Chato Jimmie did not know. He had not seen Nah-che and Chato for several years, either. They had grown. Chato was ugly, because of his flattened nose, but Nah-che was supple and handsome.

“No matter,” said Nah-che, to his companions. “This is my brother. He did right. He is brave. He shall not be harmed. Give him his gun and let him alone. We are not afraid of the soldiers.” He addressed Jimmie. “Yes, chi-kis-n, we are running away—all the Warm Springs and Chiricahua except the Taza band. There are many of us, and we know there are not enough soldiers in Arizona to stop us. We can whip the Camp Thomas soldiers first, and whip the rest as they come. Geronimo is with us, and Loco, and one hundred warriors who belong to Juh and me.”

“Why are you running away, chi-kis-n?” asked Jimmie. “I thought you and Juh were already run away. People said you were in Mexico.”

“We were,” replied Nah-che. “We live in Mexico. That is the only place for us. Nana is there, too; and Chihuahua. Now Juh and I have come up to help Geronimo and Loco get away.” He began to talk hotly. “Why do we all run away? That is a foolish question. We will not be moved around so, and put in sickly places among Indians who don’t like us. We would have stayed at our home in the Dragoon Mountains, and have been happy. A few of us drank whiskey sold us by bad white men, and we all were blamed. The San Carlos is not a good place. The White Mountains tell false stories about us, the agents steal our rations from us and we go hungry. The white traders would rather sell things to us, and cheat us. So Juh and I ran away. Now there is talk that the white men want all the San Carlos country, because of mines, and that the Apaches will be taken away, many miles, to a strange land. Geronimo says he has been told to come to Camp Thomas, for a talk—and if he goes there, he will be put in prison again; maybe killed, like Mangas Coloradas was killed. We would rather die on the warpath than die in prison or in a strange land. So we all, the Chiricahua and the Warm Springs, except Taza’s squaw-people, will live in the Mexican mountains. There we can lead our own life. The Mexicans dare not fight us, we have plenty guns and plenty food, the American soldiers cannot cross the line, to follow us.”

“Don’t you fool yourself,” retorted Jimmie. “Crook will come, and he will go anywhere.”

“Cluke is a good man. If he had stayed, maybe there would be peace instead of war,” responded Nah-che. “There has been one other good man, at San Carlos. He was the soldier-captain Chaffee. Why does the White Father at Washington let us be cheated, like children, by dishonest agents? Why does he listen to bad tongues, that say we must not stay where we were promised we might stay? But good-by, chi-kis-n. Now there is war between us. The Chiricahua are never coming back to be cheated again. You have been chi-kis-n; but you are American and I am Apache, so when we meet in war, look out for yourself. It will be man to man. We are no longer boys.”

Nah-che wheeled his pony. With a whoop, away they four tore, flourishing their guns.

Jimmie gazed after only for a moment. Then he was aware that all his left shoulder and arm were red and paining. The bullet had slashed a furrow an inch deep through the muscles of the upper arm, but the blood was clotting and he did not pause to tie a bandage on.

He unstrapped his climbing irons, kicked them off as he stooped to pick up his revolver, and hobbled for his horse; mounted and raced for Camp Thomas.

Camp Thomas had only two reduced companies of the Sixth Cavalry. When he got there, the two companies were drawn up in column of twos in front of the adjutant’s office, as if ready to start out. Micky Free was here, with a party of White Mountain and Tonto scouts. The telegraph instrument was clicking rapidly.

“Hello, Cheemie!” intercepted Micky, gaily, in his Spanish. “You been fighting, what?”

“Not much,” panted Jimmie, pulling short. “When do you start?”

“Pretty soon, when the talking wire is done. They are telling what you said, to the other posts. You did good work, Cheemie. The wire from San Carlos is cut, but Tom Horn (he was a white scout and packer at San Carlos) brought more news by horse, and Sibi has been here. Now they are out, spying on the trail, and we will follow. It has been a big outbreak.”

“Were you there, Micky?”

“No; but I heard it, and the agency Indians have signaled, and Tom Horn was there. All the Chief Loco Warm Springs and the Geronimo Chiricahua have gone. They number seven hundred. The trouble was this. You know Stirling?”

Jimmie nodded. Mr. Stirling was chief of the agency police. These were not scouts, but Indians appointed by the agent as policemen.

“Some days ago Stirling tried to arrest a Chiricahua who had been making whiskey. The Chiricahua ran and Stirling missed him and hit a squaw. That turned the Chiricahua bad, although Stirling said he was sorry. They have been getting bad anyway, because there is talk that all the Indians are to be moved far away, so that the Americans can dig coal on the reservation. Last night Juh and Nah-che sent in word that they were near, waiting to help Loco and Geronimo. This morning the Chiricahua and Warm Springs began to pack up, and Stirling and Navajo Bill, a policeman, charged them alone, to break them up. The Chiricahua had been waiting for this. They shot Stirling one hundred times at once, and a squaw cut off his head and it was kicked about like a ball. He was a very brave man, that Stirling. Navajo Bill wasn’t hurt, but another policeman was killed, and one Chiricahua. Now the Warm Springs and Chiricahua are out—and I think they will keep right on going.”

“Yes,” answered Jimmie soberly. “I met Nah-che. He came while I was talking on the wire. He says that all the soldiers in Arizona cannot stop them.”

“That is true,” agreed Micky. “They have two hundred fine warriors, and better guns than the soldiers’ guns. They nearly all have those guns that shoot sixteen times, and lots of ammunition. The soldiers are scattered, and before we get together, and the New Mexico soldiers get together, Geronimo will be into Mexico. What was Nah-che doing on this side the river? The squaws and children cannot cross, with the horses. It is too high.”

“I think Nah-che brought a party over to drive me away or kill me. He had Chato with him, and two others. But he made them quit shooting at me. We are chi-kis-n.”

“That won’t count again,” warned Micky. “So watch out, next time. This is war, and long war. Now you’d better get your arm fixed, Cheemie. The Loco and Geronimo band will have to keep on, up the river, until they can cross. They will strike south, near New Mexico, until they cross the border. There are no soldiers, ahead in that country, to stop them; and they wouldn’t care if there were. But we’re to meet Sibi and follow and fight as well as we can, under the ugly long-nosed man.”

That was Lieutenant George Gatewood, of the Sixth Cavalry, at Thomas. He came in a hurry out of the adjutant’s office.

“All ready,” he barked, to the junior lieutenant, his second in command, and swung into the saddle.

“’Ten-shun! Column—march! Trot!”

The bugle sounded briskly, and away they went, in long column, the red and white guidons flapping, Micky and his scouts galloping to the advance.

Jimmie proceeded to have his arm bandaged, and to talk with the operator. Then he reported at headquarters, but he had little to tell that was not already known. He felt, though, that he had done his duty.

While his shoulder was healing, the troops of Arizona and New Mexico struck the hostiles several times, down at the border, but did not turn them.