“The good doggie,” said Henry.  “She did her best to tell us Chiquita was stolen, and she means to do her best to retake her.”

Turning to the governor, I asked, “Are there any Navajos about here?”

“There is a large band in the cienaga, three leagues from here.  The lost pony will be found there.”

I directed Henry to run after the train and report what had happened.  “Wave your handkerchief,” said I, “and some one will come to meet you.  If it should be a mounted man, take his animal, overtake Captain Bayard, tell him all you know, and say that Frank and I have gone in pursuit, and that I request him to send a detachment of cavalry to look us up.”

Henry started off with a celerity begotten of his anxiety at the loss of his pony and the fear that his brother might fall into danger unless a body of troopers followed him closely.

Frank and I then galloped towards Vic.  As soon as the dog saw us approaching she sprang into the air, shook herself in an ecstasy of delight, then put her nose to the earth, and went steadily on in advance, threading her way through clumps of sage-brush and greasewood and along the ravines.

The tracks of a shod pony satisfied us that we were on the trail of Chiquita and her Navajo rider.  The boy had kept well down in the ravines and depressions, in order to screen himself from observation and possible pursuers.  We, however, were not obliged to follow his tracks; Vic did that, and we took the general direction from her, cutting across turnings and windings, and making much better progress than the thief could have done.

An hour’s ride brought us to the bluff behind which I had seen an object disappear.  Vic turned it and began to ascend the almost dry bed of the stream, in the bottom of which I could see occasional depressions at regular distances, as if made by a horse at a trot.  Soon the brook enlarged, becoming a flowing stream, and the tracks were no longer visible.

That the brook flowed from the cienaga, or marsh, where the Navajos were rendezvoused, was an easy inference.  The Indian boy was endeavoring to reach that place with the stolen pony.  Directing Frank to keep up the left side of the stream, and to look for tracks indicating that Chiquita had left its bed, I took the right side and hastened on.

Willows now began to appear along the banks, showing that we had reached a permanent flow of water.  Twice we came to masses of bowlders which made it impossible for a horse to travel in the stream, and we found that the pony had skirted them.

We had now reached a point where a small brook entered the larger one from the right.  We dismounted at the confluence to make an observation.  Vic suddenly began to bark furiously; then a yelp and a continued cry of pain showed that the dog was hurt, and presently she appeared with an arrow through the thick of her neck.

Advancing cautiously I caught sight of Chiquita in a cleft of the rock at my left, and an Indian boy standing behind her and aiming an arrow over the saddle.  A sharp twang, and the missile flew through my hair between my right ear and my hat-rim.  The boy then sprang forward, and raised a knife as if to hamstring the pony.  But it was not to be, for a carbine spoke, and the raised arm of the Indian fell at his side.