Looking ahead, Thurstane saw that they had reached the top of the tableland which lies south of the San Juan, and that nothing was before them for the rest of the day but a rolling plateau seamed with meandering fissures of undiscoverable depth.  Traversable as the country was, however, there was one reason for extreme anxiety.  If they should lose the trail, if they should get on the wrong side of one of those profound and endless chasms, they might reach the river at a point where descent to it would be impossible, and might die of thirst within sight of water.  For undoubtedly the San Juan flowed at the bottom of one of those amazing canons which gully this Mer de Glace in stone.

An error of direction once committed, the enemy would not give them time to retrieve it, and they would be slaughtered like mad dogs with the foam on their mouths.

Thurstane remembered that it would be his terrible duty in the last extremity to send a bullet through the heart of the woman he worshipped, rather than let her fall into the hands of brutes who would only grant her a death of torture and dishonor.  Even his steady soul failed for a moment, and tears of desperation gathered in his eyes.  For the first time in years he looked up to heaven and prayed fervently.

From the unknown destiny ahead he turned to look for the fate which pursued.  Walking with Coronado to the brink of the colossal terrace, and sheltering himself from the view of the rest of the party, he scanned the trail with his glass.  The dark line had now become a series of dark specks, more than a hundred and fifty in number, creeping along the arid floor of the lower plateau, and reminding him of venomous insects.

“They are not five miles from us,” shuddered the Mexican.  “Cursed beasts!  Devils of hell!”

“They have this hill to climb,” said Thurstane, “and, if I am not mistaken, they will have to halt here, as we have done.  Their ponies must be pretty well fagged by this time.”

“They will get a last canter out of them,” murmured Coronado.  His soul was giving way under his hardships, and it would have been a solace to him to weep aloud.  As it was, he relieved himself with a storm of blasphemies.  Oaths often serve to a man as tears do to a woman.

“We must trot now,” he said presently.

“Not yet.  Not till they are within half a mile of us.  We must spare our wind up to the last minute.”

They were interrupted by a cry of surprise and alarm.  Several of the muleteers had strayed to the edge of the declivity, and had discovered with their unaided eyesight the little cloud of death in the distance.  Texas Smith approached, looked from under his shading hand, muttered a single curse, walked back to his horse, inspected his girths, and recapped his rifle.  In a minute it was known throughout the train that Apaches were in the rear.  Without a word of direction, and in a gloomy silence which showed the general despair, the march was resumed.  There was a disposition to force a trot, which was promptly and sternly checked by Thurstane.  His voice was loud and firm; he had instinctively assumed responsibility and command; no one disputed him or thought of it.