The Coconino weekly sun., 1894-08-09
A BICYCLE RIDE.
A Thrilling Incident of the Great
 Southwest.

hONSAA " OSS'
 Jack Andrews, or Andy" ns he was more commonly known among his as- .sociates, was New York city cyclist and sport in the days of the good old ordinary. His was common name among the cycling club men of Goth am, and when astride his fifty-eight- inch mount he set a hot pace for the best of Manhattan's flyers. Jack was one of those happy-go-lucky sort of people, with plenty of stuff" to buy popularity had he been unable to get it by his genial and clever ways.
 Andrews, Sr., was accounted wealthy in the full meaning of the word in a great metropolis. Wall street had been veritable gold mine for him. He made his money easily; Jack spent it for him rapidly.
 But there came an end to these prosperous days. A financial crash drove many of New YorlS's supposedly wealthy brokers to the wall, and An ,drews, Sr., was one of them. But, un- like the great majority, he had had enough Wall street had no further attractions for him and, out of what little remained of once great fortune he bought small fruit farm in New England where he settled down to en- joy the remainder of his days amid the quiet of rural surroundings, in- stead of again attempting to "buck the tiger" on the New York Stock ex- change.
 The failure of Andrews Sr., was probably felt more keenly by his son Jack than by the old gentleman him. self. His had been life with the boys where money, and plenty of it, was necessary. The stopping of his princely allowance meant the discon- tinuance of his expensive habits. But New England farm life didn't suit Jack; he desired something more ex- citing, something more after the fashion of hot scorch over smoothly paved boulevards. Before six months had passed he had left home ties be- hind, and, with nothing but his fa- ther's blessing and a mothers prayers for his welfare, started west. It wasn't a fortune he sought on AriZona's plains, for Jack was philosophical young man, and didn't believe that fortune was gathered off of every bit of western sage brush, but a life worth the living. A broncho was to take the place of wheel; a pair of buckskin pants, a flannel shirt and broad brimmed western sombrero were to re. place the natty, short cycling trowsers, the white sweater and the silk cap of his New York cycling days.
 The haff-dozen men sitting around the camp fire at post four on X ranch, in Arizona, looked worried One of their number was somewhere on that broad stretch of sand to the north ward. Whether or not he was yet living was only conje cture on their part, for band of Apaches had left the reservation two days before and were dealing death and destruction among the settlers and cattlemen. Jack An ,drews, the missing member of post four, had gone to the nearest railroad station, forty miles away, for the mail and an express package for the man. ager of the ranch, a remittance to pay the monthly salaries. If nothing had gone wrong, he should have been back ere this, but with a band of blood thirsty Indians, headed by that terror of terrors, the Apache Kid, roaming over the Arizona desert in search of scalps, his friends had grave fears for his safety.
 The missing herder should have been in camp by the middle of the after noon, but as daylight faded into twi- light and then into the deeper dark ness of night, relieved only by the glimmer of countless twinkling stars, and no Jack appeared, their fears for his safety increased. They talked of the Apache raid and the three cattle men who had been so ruthlessly mur- dered by the Indians but ten miles west of them the day before. From that their conversation drifted to the death of Harry Williams, whose horse had fallen with him during lonely night ride across the desert, and then of others of their friends who had met similar fates on Arizona's broad plains. They could imagine lone horseman wandering . about among the sand hills and sage