"Dick," he said, "old fellow! Don't I wish I were on your back!"
His own saddle was there, and his own rifle and some other weapons were strapped to it. Other property was securely fastened upon them, and for that journey, at least, the red mustang had been turned into a pack-pony. He seemed to almost feel humiliated and downcast, but was otherwise in his usual condition, so far as his master could see.
Hoot! Hoot! Hoot! came the owl cries from the forest westward, and the braves in charge of the shadowy train began to urge it forward.
"Pull Stick, look!"
It was the voice of Crooked Nose, and he was tapping his carbine meaningly.
Cal nodded, but did not speak, for he understood the warning. His life was hanging by a thread, and he was in need of all the caution he possessed.
Every camp-fire was heaped high with fuel before it was left behind, and the forest was all the darker by contrast. The Apaches managed to pick their way, with the aid of torches. It did not seem to Cal that they had ridden far before the trees grew thinner, and there was more moonlight. Then there were no trees; a little farther on and there were no bushes; all was plain enough then, for the bare desert was reached, and Cal knew by the stars that the band was heading in an easterly direction well out from the line of timber.
Hardly had he said to himself, "Kah-go-mish got away in time, anyhow," before he heard a muffled tumult in the forest behind him. Every animal in the train was pushed more rapidly.
"Mexicans!" exclaimed Wah-wah-o-be. "Find fire. No find Kah-go-mish. Ugh!"
A sharp rattle of distant musketry offered her a sort of angry reply, but it only drew a laugh from Wah-wah-o-be.