CHAPTER XVIII HUNTING A TRAIL
On they went, on and on, till beneath the rugged peak of the Cerro de las Viboras they saw before them a glorious open valley of a thousand acres, facing the southern sun, and green with young grass.
"This is the Valle Lindito," said the cacique, "and there is our horse herd." A band of two or three hundred horses and mares were grazing peacefully in the valley. It was early yet for foals, but a few here and there were visible, frisking and capering round their dams.
An Indian stallion nickered proudly at the sight of the strangers, and trotted towards them, high and disposedly, tossing his crest and holding his head aloft; at the sight of him Morgana whinnied back, and lo! from a patch of willow brush leaped forth an Indian youth who was on watch; bareback he came full speed on a flying pony and whirled a lasso round and round, and chivied the guardian of the herd back to his mates. Then he rode up to the four and greeted them, and rapid question and answer ensued. The youth was young Ignacio, son to Josefa's elderly would-be bridegroom. No, they had seen no Navajos, nor any tracks of any. Nothing had troubled the herd except that the mountain lions had killed a foal. The travelling Mexican sheep herds were wandering hither and thither through the mountains, as usual, seeking their appointed stations for the lambing month ere it began. The Jicarilla Apaches had been through not long before and had killed some cattle of the Mexicans—the Indian laughed as he recounted this—and the Mexicans were very angry, but could not catch them. He hinted that Mexican beef tasted sweet, and laughed still more, but the cacique frowned. He did not love the Mexicans—far from it—but his policy was to keep on good terms with them. He repeated his questions about the Navajos.
The rest of the Indian herders came up, and now came news. Yes, they had seen tracks of a travelling party which they supposed to be Indians. Eleven ponies there were altogether, going north-westward from the Mesa del Verendo. No, they had seen no one to speak of, and they had seen no tracks of any party of Mexicans in pursuit. They were astonished when they heard the tale of the abduction of Manuelita, but they had heard of the killing of the Navajo by Don Andrés from the shepherds of a flock of the Preas, which they had met in the Valle Cajon. As for the tracks they had seen that morning, they might be those of Mahletonkwa and his band, or they might have been made by some other Navajos or by Jicarillas. "Quien sabe?" But they told the cacique exactly where he would find them next day and then he could judge for himself.
Three fresh horses were now selected and caught. The cacique's horse and Stephens's mule were now turned loose in the Indian herd, where the mule brayed frantically for his beloved Morgana. A hasty meal was eaten, and with young Ignacio added to their party they set forward once more into the wilderness.
Ere the sun was an hour high next morning the cacique and Miguel and young Ignacio were critically examining the eleven ponies' tracks, and trying to make out whether they were those of Mahletonkwa's band or no.
"Almost certainly, yes," was the verdict, and they followed at once hotly on the trail. The fact that they were exactly eleven in number made the probability very great, and the absence of any other later tracks made it certain that if they had really hit it off they must have cut the trail in front of the Mexicans.
The cacique crowed triumphantly.