About noon the signs mentioned by Tom Horn were found: a trail, and the bodies of butchered cattle. That evening Ka-e-ten-na pointed ahead.
“Espinosa del Diablo,” he said. “Maybe we cross. Very bad country.”
Espinosa del Diablo was Spanish for Devil’s Backbone—a high mass of jagged ridges.
Early in the morning two more of Tom Horn’s scouts came in. The light of Indian camp-fires had been sighted, reflected in the sky, and Chief Scout Horn urged the captain to hurry.
The command made a short march, rested until late afternoon, and started on again, to march by night. The country steadily grew worse, with deep, dark canyons, steep rocky hills, heavy brush, and a river which was constantly being forded. Moccasins were soaked and soon cut to bits.
From now on, the camps were not ordered until midnight. Only small fires of dry wood were permitted; and under one thin blanket apiece nobody was able to sleep, before the sun rose. In fact, it was as miserable a time as Jimmie ever had experienced.
More messages arrived from Tom Horn. He had located the Chiricahuas—had smelled the mescal steam, had seen the fires. “Hurry!” he bade. He had only two scouts with him.
Captain Crawford lengthened the marches, to all night and half-day stretches. Some of the Apache scouts, tough as they were, began to straggle and limp. Doctor Davis and old Concepcion could barely hobble.
At sunset of January 9, “Dutchy,” another of the Horn scouts, appeared. Dutchy said that the Chiricahua camp was but twelve miles away. He and Tom and the other scout had reconnoitered it—had witnessed the Chiricahuas moving about, herding their horses. They did not suspect that any enemies were near.