He was a big man, wide shouldered, with the lean, hard boned face of a desert rider. There was no softness in them. His toughness was ingrained and deep, without cruelty, yet quick, hard and dangerous. Whatever gentleness might be within him was guarded and deep. He had been sitting motionless and still on his Buckskin for more than an hour. Patience was the price of survival, he knew that, and often the first to move was the first to die. His name was Hondo and he could almost smell the trouble coming. Somewhere hold up in the arroyo were Renegade Apaches waiting..