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“Guess I’m too far,” he thought. “Out of range!” But he guessed wrong, for a moment later his pony stumbled and fell. He rolled clear and staggered to his feet and started to run on. But a moment later he was jerked to earth. One of the men had roped him. When at last the jolting cars stopped, they found a car waiting, into which the three piled. Once under way, Bob asked Mr. Whitney, “Doesn’t the railroad go into the camp? It seems to me it must be pretty heavy hauling all the big machinery from here across the desert.” But when Bob started to thank Feather-in-the-Wind for finding out what he had, the Apache stopped him. “Wait! More!” he said. “One my young men got keen eyes. Not dimmed by white man’s whiskey. He see Miguel go away from camp one, two, t’ree nights. He take something with him. Young man no follow. No worry him much. Perhaps go to-night. You want us follow?”.

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As he surveyed the place in silent wonder, a sullen groan arose from beneath the spot where he stood. His blood ran cold at the sound, but silence returning, and continuing unbroken, he attributed his alarm to the illusion of a fancy, which terror had impregnated. He made another effort to force the door, when a groan was repeated more hollow, and more dreadful than the first. At this moment all his courage forsook him; he quitted the door, and hastened to the stair-case, which he ascended almost breathless with terror. Too little! Were they crazy? Indeed he wouldn’t have double time. He would ride better than any of them, he would. Who was it owned the horse? He would show them who could ride best; and he struck Bob sharply. “Away with you, Bob! Faster! Faster!” Well, he would not get up yet anyway, since it was raining so hard. He would lie there and sing all the school songs. So he began singing at the top of his voice, “Yes, we love our grand old Norway.” That went splendidly. Then he started another, but that tune ran up rather too high for his voice. "All the better to embrace you with, my little girl.".