He looked over the sand dunes and scrubby desert growths stretching far and misty under the moon, and, then to the rugged gray range of the mountain spur rising to the south. They were skirting the very edge of it where it rose abruptly from the plain; a very great gray upthrust of granite wall beside them was like a gray blade slanted out of the plain. He had noticed it as one of the landmarks on the road to Mesa Blanca, and on its face were a few curious scratchings or peckings, one a rude sun symbol, and others of stars and waves of water. He recalled remarking to Pike that it must have been a prayer place for some of the old tribes.
“Yes, I know the place, when we reach this big rock it means that we are nearing the border of the ranch, this rock wall tells me that. We can be at Palomitas before noon.”
“No,” she said, and got down from the mule, “not to Palomitas now. Here we carry the food, and here we hide the saddles, and the mule go free. The burro we take, nothing else.”
“Where is a place to hide saddles here?” and he made gesture toward the great granite plane glistening in the moonlight.
“A place is found,” she returned, “it is better we ride off the trail at this place.”
She did so, circling back the way they had come until they were opposite a more broken part of the mountain side, then she began deftly to help unsaddle.
“Break no brush and make all tracks like an Apache on the trail,” she said.
Miguel sat silent on the burro as if asleep. He had never once roused to give heed to the words or the trail through the long ride. At times where the way was rough he would mutter thanks at the help of Kit and sink again into stupor.
“I can’t spare that mule,” protested Kit, but she nodded her head as if that had been all thought out.
“He will maybe not go far, there is grass and a very little spring below. Come now, I show you that hidden trail.”