“Let the liftinint say,” answered the elder scout, tightening his belt and readjusting his equipments for resuming his riding.

“All ready, then,” said I.  “You take the right, Weaver, and George the left.  While you are gone we’ll turn out the stock.”

The scouts departed, and a few moments later the horses of the command were cropping the rich grass of the narrow valley, sentinels were placed to watch them and look for the return of the guides, and the rest of the men threw themselves upon the turf to rest.

An hour passed away, when Weaver was seen returning from the northern trail.  As he approached he held something above his head.  Directing the horses to be made ready, I walked forward to meet him, and received from his hand a small bow of blue ribbon, which I at once recognized to be the property of Brenda.

It now appeared certain the girl captive had been taken over the road to the right; so, without waiting for the return of Cooler, the men were ordered into their saddles, and we started along the northern trail.  Our march had not long continued, however, when Private Tom Clary, who was riding in the rear, called to me.  Looking back, I saw the young scout galloping rapidly forward and waving his hat in a beckoning manner.

A halt was ordered, and Cooler rode up to me and placed in my hand a lock of flaxen hair, bound with a thread of the same.  Placed by the other they were twin tresses, except that the last was slightly singed by fire.

Well, tears glistened on the eyelids of some of the bronzed veterans at the sight of the tiny lock of hair.  We had barely escaped taking the wrong trail.

“God bliss the darlint,” said grizzled Tom Clary.  “There’s not a ridskin can bate her with their tricks.  We’ll bring her back to her frinds, b’ys, or it’ll go hard wid us.”

Clary’s remarks were subscribed to by many hearty exclamations on the part of his fellow-soldiers.  We had no difficulty in understanding that the Apaches had expected to be pursued and had dropped the ribbon to mislead us, and that Brenda had dropped her “sign” to set her friends right.

I asked the guides if it was not probable the Apaches had set a watch on the overlooking heights to see which road we should take at this point.

“It’s sartin’, liftinint,” answered Weaver; “they’re watchin’ us sharp jest now.”

“Then we had better continue on the northern trail awhile and mislead them, you think?”

“That’s it, liftinint.  That’s th’ best thing to do.  We needn’t reach their camp until after midnight, an’ we might ‘s well spend th’ time misleadin’ em.”

“Yes, and it’ll be better to reach them a few hours after midnight, too,” added Cooler; “they sleep soundest then.”

“Then we will go on as we began for some time longer,” I replied, and the soldiers again moved at a brisk canter over the northern trail.

An hour passed, and a halt was made in a grassy nook, where the horses were turned out to graze until dusk.  Our route was then retraced to the fork and the march resumed over the southern branch.