“Not yet; but they captured the camp. We’re to come on at once, doctor.”
“How far? Any of our men hurt?”
Jimmie asked Dutchy.
“Ten miles. Only Chiricahua hurt.”
“I’ve got to rest,” panted the doctor. “Go ahead with your mules. We’ll follow. Any danger?”
“No danger,” said Dutchy, answering Jimmie. “Chiricahua hide till to-morrow.”
Dutchy plainly was in a great hurry to get back—probably to share in the plunder. Jimmie left the doctor and Concepcion to come as best they could, and again hustled his mules to keep up with Dutchy. But that proved impossible. The trail was a corker! How in the world Captain Crawford and men ever had traveled it in the darkness was a wonder.
Dutchy disappeared. Only the trail remained, as guide. It dipped into canyons, and wound over rocks and steep ridges. Jimmie wheezed and puffed and sweat. He was empty from chin to knees, his legs were leaden, he ached in every muscle. His mules repeatedly halted, and stood heaving and straddled. But he pushed on. The captain had sent for the packs, and orders were orders.
The sun set. He had been half a day covering these few miles! A damp fog was descending, cloaking the mountains. If he missed the trail——! No! Good! He saw camp-fire light, glowing on the low clouds. At last, in the gathering dark, he labored into the camp, to report.
Everybody there was asleep, utterly worn out. Jimmie peered about, and wakened Chato and got a small chunk of pony meat from him; unpacked his mules and went to sleep himself, in defiance of the cold rain that was falling. He had done his stint. The doctor and Concepcion hardly could arrive before morning.