Cal Evans himself, although he awoke in the camp they were talking about, did not clearly know where it was, and while he was grooming the red mustang he said as much to Sam Herrick.
"Colorado!" remarked Sam; "you're just like everybody else. I believe those Chiricahuas have lost the trail, or else they don't mean we shall find the Mescaleros."
"What's going to be done?" asked Cal.
"Your father and Captain Moore mean to push right on," said Sam. "They've got some plan or other. Tell you what, though, if I was an Apache chief, and if I'd gobbled a drove of horses, as they did, I'd take my chances over in Mexico. I wouldn't come loafing out hereaway, to be followed by cavalry and caught napping. There's a plain of awfully dry gravel a little west of where we are now."
Cal finished Dick, and then he carried his questions to his father.
"Sam's right," said the colonel. "He's an old hand at trailing. We believe the redskins have crossed the line."
"Into Mexico? Shall we miss 'em?"
"No, Cal, I think not. Captain Moore knows something of what the Mexicans are doing. The Apaches won't be comfortable there. What we're guessing at is the place where they're likely to come out again. We're pretty sure we know about where it's got to be."
He might have been less positive if he could have seen how very comfortable the band of Kah-go-mish looked in their camp among the Mexican mountains at that very hour.
It was a safe place, but it was not one to remain in for any great length of time, for the horses had already eaten up nearly all the grass. Some of the braves had gone out after game successfully, while others had brought in fish, so that the human beings had food enough, but the quadrupeds would soon wear out the pasturage of so small a valley.