Hano followed down into the dim cavern, crossed its sandy floor and worked his horse up the opposite gap. There, far to the east, he discerned a flaring watch-fire, over on the Red Tepee, as his tribe called Cerro Colorado. So that was what these white men had become excited about? he exclaimed mentally, as he watched the fire awhile.
“Ugh! The Mexicanos!—Those that the white youth told me of!” decided Hano finally. As he watched, tiny flares began to move down the hill and out northwards on the plain. Hano counted twelve of these lights, moving slowly north apparently, though they were being carried by men on galloping horses. Immediately he divined it. Those lights were torches, carried by the Mexicans to see choyas ahead, and they were moving for Represa Tank!
From there their next ride would be either up the Camino del Diablo or—to his own mountains! And the white boy said they were coming!
What for, Hano did not know, but immediately all his plans underwent a sudden revolution. This must not be! There were twelve of the Mexicanos and only three of these other whites. The whole neighborhood from here to the Pass was filled with pony tracks made by the white boy’s friends. The Mexicans would be easily victorious over only three of them, and then the tracks would lead them to——
His mind made up at once, Hano started the pony at once around the crater in the direction the white men had just gone. To combine with them, to bring them to Red Mesa and have their help in defending his home was his people’s only salvation—just as that white boy, Col-vin—blessed name!—had said.
But to ride on into a strange camp was entirely against Hano’s Indian training. It might end in being shot or some other absurd mistake. The thing to do, now, was to get in touch with this Navaho that the white boy had spoken of. He was an Indian and both tribes spoke the Athapascan tongue. Aided by the sign language they could understand each other. The Navaho was the one to meet first!
Hano halted his pony. He could not be very far behind these whites now. He sent out his voice in the challenge of the big-horn ram, for he knew that the Navaho would understand that unnatural voice in the dead of night as a signal. Then he waited, his eyes alert, ears listening eagerly.
The bellow of a hound far ahead was his first reply. Then silence, profound and unbroken. After a short wait a man rose suddenly out of the ground before him. He pointed a rifle full on Hano: “Who are you?” he demanded in Navaho.
“Friend!” replied Hano, giving the peace sign.
The Navaho did not lower his rifle. “That pony? Where did you get him?” he asked sternly.