The redskin looked pleased.
“It is well,” he said, turning away.
Less than half an hour sufficed for the Indians to prepare and eat a meal, and then the thoroughly-refreshed mustangs were remounted, and the party trotted away from the grove, Van Dorn and his red friend leading.
“Which way do you think the trail of the black rider lies?” asked the chief.
“To the east,” said Van Dorn. “That’s the course he took, and as he was making time, and trying to get away from a party of pursuers, it is more than likely that he kept on straight ahead. I shall know the trail when we come to it.”
They pushed on in silence for some few minutes, and then Van Dorn said:
“There are the tracks.”
Sure enough, there were the deep imprints of the horse’s hoofs, for his double load had caused him to mark deeply.
The chieftain pointed them out to his braves.
“Follow,” he said.