the great ribbon-like pathways of the northern cattle trail, these now and then blending with the paths of the vanished buffalo.  The interweaving paths of the cattle trail were flat and dusty, whereas the buffalo trails were cut deep into the hard earth.  Already the dust was swept and washed out of these old and unused ways, leaving them as they were to stand for many years afterward, deep furrows marking the accustomed journeyings of a now annihilated race.

All the wild animals of the plains know how to find their way to water, and the deep buffalo paths all met and headed for the water that lay ahead, and which was to be approached by the easiest possible descent from the table-land through the breaks.  Along one of these old trails the horse had come up from the valley, and hence it was down this same trail that Juan eventually led the two searchers for the horse’s owner.  The ponies plunged down the rude path which wound among the ridges and cut banks, and at last emerged upon the flat, narrow valley traversed by the turbid stream, in that land dignified by the name of river.  Down to the water the thirsty horses broke eagerly, Juan following, and lying at full length along the bank, where he lapped at the water like a hound.

“Que camina—­onde, amigo?” asked Curly in cowboy patois.  “Which way?”

The Mexican pointed up the stream with carelessness, and they turned thither as soon as the thirst of all had been appeased.  As they resumed the march, now along the level floor of the winding little valley.  Franklin was revolving a certain impression in his mind.  In the mud at the bank where they had stopped he had seen the imprint of a naked foot—­a foot very large and with an upturned toe, widely spreading apart from its fellows, and it seemed to him that this track was not so fresh as the ones he had just seen made before his eyes.  Troubled, he said nothing, but gave a start as Curly, without introduction, remarked, as though reading his thoughts: 

“Cap, I seen it, too.”

“His footprint at the bank?”

“Yep.  He’s shore been here afore.”

Neither man said more, but both grew grave, and both looked unconsciously to their weapons.  Their way now led among ragged plum thickets, and occasional tangles of wild grapevines, or such smaller growths as clung close to the water among the larger, ragged cottonwoods that dotted the floor of the valley.  The Mexican plunged ahead as confidently as before, and in this tangled going his speed was greater than that of the horses. “Cuidado!” (careful) “Juan,” cried Curly warningly, and the latter turned back a face inscrutable as ever.

The party moved up the valley a mile above the old buffalo ford, and now at last there appeared a change in the deportment of the guide.  His step quickened.  He prattled vaguely to himself.  It seemed that something was near.  There was a solemnity in the air.  Overhead an excited crow crossed and recrossed the thin strip of high blue sky.  Above the crow a buzzard swung in slow, repeated circles, though not joined by any of its sombre brotherhood.  Mystery, expectation, dread, sat upon this scene.  The two men rode with hands upon their pistols and leaning forward to see that which they felt must now be near.