He was a fine spectacle as he thundered alone across the plain, upright and easy in his seat, balancing his heavy rifle as if it were a rattan, his dark and cruel face settled for fight and his fierce black eyes blazing.
Only a minute's ride, but that minute life or death.

As he had expected, the Apaches discovered him almost as soon as he left the cover of his butte, and all the outlying members of the horde swarmed toward him with a yell, brandishing their spears and getting ready their bows as they rode.
It would clearly be impossible for him to cut his way through thirty warriors unless he received assistance from the train.

Would it come?
His evil conscience told him, without the least reason, that Thurstane would not help.

But from Coronado, whose life he had saved and whose evil work he had undertaken to do--from this man, "greaser" as he was, he did expect a sally.

If it did not come, and if he should escape by some rare chance, he, Texas Smith, would murder the Mexican the first time he found him alone, so help him God! While he thought and cursed he flew.