The Apache scouts forged ahead of the cavalry. Along after midnight, from a little rise sign was seen away off, before. Lights! Major Brown and Nan-ta-je had halted.
“Come! Quick!” hissed Micky, he and Jimmie trotting faster. “Camp-fires. Maybe Yavapai.”
“Column, halt! Lie down, men,” sounded the low gruff order, behind.
Down flopped everybody, except Archie MacIntosh and Joe Felmer, and half a dozen of the scouts with them, who continued on rapidly. Micky slipped after, like a shadow; he did not intend to miss anything.
Jimmie had dropped in the van of the other scouts, near to the major and Nan-ta-je. They and Chief Big Mouth and Bobby Do-klinny were crouched under a blanket.
“Nan-ta-je step in track. Think it man track,” grunted, in Apache, the Indian beside Jimmie. Queer how the Apaches seemed to know everything! And Nan-ta-je had merely felt the track, through his moccasin sole!
Under the blanket the major—or somebody—struck another match. Just the faint crackle told. The little group examined the track, there was short muttering; then the crouchers relaxed and quit, and waited. Big Mouth crept back.
“Shosh (Bear),” he informed.
Nan-ta-je had been fooled, but a bear track is very much like a moccasin track.