Now on this the third day from the cave Micky suddenly stopped short and examined an object beside him. They had been following just below a gravelly ridge, so as to be out of sight. Yuccas and bunchy grass grew here, and a few cedars, and the sun was warm.
“Tonto sign,” spoke Micky, pointing.
It was a band of dried grass knotted around a yucca leaf. Only eyes like those of Micky would have seen it; but Micky saw everything.
“How do you know, Micky?”
“Because I know,” answered Micky. “That is the way the Tonto tie their grass. A White Mountain would have tied different, and so would a Chiricahua or a Pinal. And the same with piling stones or writing signs on rocks or bark. It means a Tonto war party has passed here, and tells other Tonto to follow. See—there is the trail.”
“Shall we hide, Micky?”
“No. The trail was made early this morning. It is an old trail. See, Cheemie? You have lived with the Chiricahua and you ought to know. There is a broken twig, where it was stepped on, and the leaves are wilted. The sap is done flowing. I think we’d better follow and see where those Tonto are going, so we won’t run into them.”
The trail proceeded up the gravelly ridge, where moccasin prints were plain, and over, and through among cedars of a flat mesa; and suddenly Jimmie fairly gasped for breath. They had come out upon the edge of a great, broad, deep valley lying like a green basin; it was so deep that the trees in it looked like shrubs, and the farther edge was veiled in purple mist.
“Tonto home,” said Micky. “Down in there the Tonto live, where they can hide. Up here is Mogollon country. It is all a flat mountain top, on the Sierra Mogollon. We shall see many big pine trees soon. When we find where this Tonto trail goes we had better turn back.”