That was the question on the lips of father and son as they discussed the situation, and in the minds of both trembled the same answer: the hostiles were in the arroya itself, behind the fugitives.
"They have ridden down the bank," said the parent, "to shelter their ponies from the icy blast, and are there now."
"Will they suspect that we have been this way?" inquired the mother.
"They cannot fail to notice the hoof-prints we have left," replied her husband, "and that will tell the story as plainly as if they sat on the bank as we rode by."
The alarming declaration caused the wife to cast a terrified glance behind her, as if she expected to see the ferocious redskins burst into view with crack of rifle and ear-splitting shriek.
In the circumstances, there was manifestly but one thing to do—push on with no more delay than was inevitable.
The ground at the bottom of the arroya was comparatively level, and the horses dropped into an easy swinging gallop, which lasted but a few minutes, when Mr. Kingsland called in a faint voice, as he brought his animal down to a walk—
"Hold on, Brinton!"
"What is the matter?" asked the son, looking at him in dismay.
"I can't stand it; I am not as strong as I thought."