Cal was glad to find that his four-footed friend was in good condition, after his pretty severe share in the adventures which began in the chaparral. Still, it was an uncomfortable thing to think of, that the red mustang was likely to end his days as an Apache pony instead of as the pet of all the household at Santa Lucia.
The camp was regained, and Cal at once took note of changes. The fires had been kindled the previous evening, in a straggling line along the bank or a small stream of water. Tangled bushes marked the course of the stream, and great trees leaned over it, dropping the swinging ropes of vines from their branches to its very surface. The more distant fires had been entirely hidden, except for the glare they made.
The band had bivouacked that first night, but now there were lodges going up, and Cal knew what that meant.
"They mean to stay here," he said to himself. "I might as well be in jail."
It was nearly so. The neighboring wilderness had been found to be full of game, and the plan of Kah-go-mish called for liberal supplies of fresh meat, in addition to what he had found upon Colonel Romero's pack-mules. He felt sure that any Mexican force hunting after him would look almost anywhere else, and none was likely to come for a long time. He and his band were happy; they were safe; they could have a good time until continued happiness and safety might require another move.
Cal and Crooked Nose were met by a summons to come before the chief, and went to find him waiting their arrival.
"Pull Stick here! Ugh!" said Crooked Nose.
"Kah-go-mish is a great chief!" remarked the Apache commander dignifiedly, but he had more to say. He repeated to Cal his previous counsel against an attempt to escape, but after that he raked out some hot coals from the smouldering camp-fire near him.
"Boy see?" he said, as he pointed at the red warning. "How boy like? Ugh!"
Cal shuddered and nodded, but he could not find a word to say in reply.