“Ought t’ be.  Trapped and hunted here since I was twenty, and I’m nigh on to sixty-five now.”

“Have these Apaches a camping-place near here?”

“Yes; they spend a part of every year here-abouts, gatherin’ mezcal.  From the direction they’ve took, I b’lieve they’re goin’ to Santy Maree Creek.”

“That flows into Bill Williams Fork, does it not?”

“Yes, an’ ‘t has a northern and southern branch.  One of th’ favorite campin’-places of th’ Mezcalleros ‘s on th’ southern branch.”

“How far is it from here?”

“’Bout fifty mile.”

“Easy of approach?”

“Toler’ble; good ridin’ all th’ way, ’cept a bit of bowlder country on a divide.”

“Is the camp open to attack?”

“Wide open arter yer git into th’ valley.  There’s a waterfall, or, rather, a piece of rips ther’ that ‘ll drown th’ n’ise of our comin’.”

“Isn’t it strange Indians should camp in such a place?”

“They’re Mezcallero ‘Paches, and the’r food, th’ mezcal, grows thick round ther’.  ‘Sides, ther’s no other place on th’ stream combinin’ grazin’ and waterin’, and they’ve never been hunted into that region yit.”

“Well, Paul, they will be now.”

I urged the men on as fast as possible, taking care not to exhaust the horses and unfit them for a long pursuit.  The soldiers were animated by a strong desire to punish the Indians for their treatment of the family in Skull Valley, and were excited by the fear that the gentle and beautiful young girl in their hands might fall a victim to some barbaric cruelty before they could be overtaken, so that the animals were constantly urged close to their powers of endurance.

Near the middle of the forenoon, as the soldiers were riding up a canon, on each side of which rose rugged sandstone precipices, we came to a fork in the trail and the canon.  Not only the track parted, but, judging from footprints, most of the captured stock had passed to the right.  Weaver said the right-hand path led to the northern branch of the Santa Maria, and the left to the southern.

I halted the detachment, perplexed.  To divide my party of twenty-nine in order to follow both trails seemed to me to be inviting disaster.  To take the whole number over a wrong trail and not rescue Brenda was a course to be dreaded.  I called up the scouts, Weaver and Cooler, for a consultation.

“Don’t you think it is probable,” I asked, “that a girl who was thoughtful enough to drop a ‘sign’ to show she is alive and a captive, would be likely to give a hint here as to which trail she was taken over?”

“That’s prob’ble, liftinint,” replied Weaver. “‘F you’ll hold th’ boys here a bit, George an’ I’ll ride up th’ two trails a piece an’ look for signs.”

“Go quite a distance, too.  She might not get an opportunity to drop anything for some time after leaving the fork.”

“That’s true, sir,” said Cooler; “the redskins would naturally be watching her closely.  Which way will you go, Paul?”