On we went, winding through the black timber again. We were on the trail, all right; for by looking at the tree-tops against the sky we could just see them and could see that they were always opening out, ahead. The trail on the ground was kind of reproduced on the sky.
It was a long way, through that dark gulch. But nothing hurt us and we kept going.
The gulch widened; we rode through a park, and the horses turned sharply and began to climb a hill—zigzagging back and forth. We couldn't see a trail, and I got off and felt with my hands.
A trail was there.
We came out on top. Here it was lighter. The moon had risen, and some light leaked through the clouds.
"Do you think we're on the right trail, still?" asked Van, dubiously. "They didn't say anything about this other hill."
That was so. But they hadn't said anything about there being two trails, either. They had said that when we struck the trail over the mesa, to follow it to the mines.
"It must be the right trail," I said, back. "All we can do is to keep following it."
Seemed to me that we had gone the twenty miles already. But of course we hadn't.
"Maybe we've branched off, on to another trail," persisted Van. "The horses turned, you remember. Maybe we ought to go back and find out."