“Yes, sir; I’ll remember,” engaged Oliver, working eagerly.
So presently into the twilight glow rode the dozen teamsters, armed and mounted as well as practicable. Two and two they rode: their bearded, booted, flannel-shirted captain, and ragged Oliver high on a yellow horse, side by side in the lead.
Through the twilight, and through the gloaming, and through the starry night, at trot broken by now and then a brief space of walk, westward rode the little cavalcade, to surprise the Apaches.
The dark blue sky gradually paled; paled the dusky earth; coyotes homeward slinked; little brown birds twittered amidst the brush; from the east spread upward a pink radiance; and stiff and chilled from the night’s travel through the great open sage country, at rising of the sun the pursuit jogged into the first of the hill defiles.
As they rode, the horsemen ate; chewing at strips of dried buffalo meat.
Higher and more numerous waxed the hills, their long steep slopes covered with chaparral and stunted timber, and separated by bouldered water-courses, many of them dry. The trail seemed a blind one.
“Do ye know whar you’re going, boy?” queried the teamster captain, doubtfully.
“Yes, sir. I’ve been in here before, and Kit Carson told me,” answered Oliver, hard at work thinking, and peering keenly.
At noon they rested by a stream, and let the horses graze, and dozed, themselves, while down upon the wild maze of quiet wooded hills poured the generous sun――his beams hot in the thin atmosphere.
After their nooning, again they rode. The country had grown wilder; the hills had become peaks, snow-capped; the water-courses had cut deep gulches and canyons. It was the favorite region of the Jicarilla (Heek-ah-ree-yah, _i.e._, Basket) Apaches; the ancient volcano land of northern New Mexico west of the Rio Grande. Here the Jicarillas had their retreats.
Now the pursuit must ride more carefully, for Oliver was not certain but that they might be near the Indians. So they scanned every ridge to catch timely glimpse of Indian scout, and every hollow to catch glimpse of tell-tale smoke. An oddly-shaped little peak was the landmark; and as by way of draw and pass, from valley to valley, they neared it, Oliver’s heart beat faster. Below the peak was that box-canyon or enclosed basin where, according to Kit Carson’s judgment, the stolen stock would be hidden.