Such were the contents of the page—the fly-leaf of a torn missal. Upon the other side was a vignette—a picture of Dolores, the weeping saint of Mexico! Had it been chosen, the emblem could scarcely have been more appropriate.
I thrust the red writing into my bosom; and, without waiting to exchange a word with my companions, pressed forward upon the trail.
Chapter Eighty One.
More Writing in Red.
The men followed as before. We needed no trackers to point out the way; the path was plain as a drover’s road—a thousand hoofs had made their mark upon the ground.
We rode at a regular pace, not rapidly. I was in no hurry to come up with the savages; I desired to get sight of them just after nightfall, not before, lest they might also get sight of us.
The plan I proposed to myself for the rescue of my betrothed, could not be accomplished in the daytime; darkness alone could avail me in carrying it out, and for nightfall must I wait.
We could easily have overtaken the Indians before night. They were but two short hours in the advance of us, and would be certain—as is their custom on the war-trail—to make a noon-halt of several hours’ duration. Even Indian horses require to be rested.