At the close of the consultation I rejoined Corporal Frank, and we went back to our former seat under the cliff. The boy was exceedingly depressed, and I did my best to persuade him that all would end well and his brother would be rescued.

"But he may be dead, or dying," he answered to my arguments.

"No; that is improbable. Had he been killed, the Indians would have taken particular pains to mutilate and place his body where the passing column would have seen it. That in itself is good evidence that he is living. The worst that is likely to happen is that he may be held for ransom or exchange."

"But how can I wait?" exclaimed Frank. "I feel as though I ought to start now."

"That would do no good," I replied. "You cannot find your brother's trail, nor could you follow it in the night."

"I cannot help thinking, sir, that Henry will send Vicky with a message, and I fear that she cannot follow us so far. She must be fearfully hungry and thirsty. I feel as if I ought to go and meet her."

"You may be right about the message. As Vic was without her collar, she may not have been killed."

The hours crept slowly on. The uneasy animals never ceased their walk backward and forward between the water and the wagons, uttering their discontent. Towards midnight, overcome by the fatigues of the day, I fell into a doze, and did not wake until called at three.

A breakfast similar to our supper was served, and we were ready for the road. The mules were harnessed while vigorously braying their protests against such ill usage, and, once under way, slowly drew the wagons to the summit of the divide between the Lithodendron and the Little Colorado, a distance of twelve miles.

I did not see Frank while overlooking the drawing out of the train, but gave myself no anxiety on his account, thinking he had accompanied the advance. We had proceeded about a mile when a corporal of the guard ran after me, and reported that the Arnolds were not hitching up. Halting the train, I rode back and found Brenda sitting by the road-side in tears.

"What is the matter, Miss Arnold?" I asked.

"Oh, it is something this time," she sobbed, "that even you cannot remedy."

"Then you think I can generally remedy things? Thank you."

"You have always helped us, but I do not see how you can now."

"What is the trouble, please?"

"Our poor oxen have worn their hoofs through to the quick. They were obliged to travel very fast yesterday, and over a flinty road, and their hoofs are worn and bleeding. Uncle says we must remain behind."

"Perhaps things are not as bad as you think," I said. "Let us go back and see."

Rising dejectedly, and by no means inspired by hope, Brenda led the way to the Arnold wagons, where I found the father and mother on their knees beside an ox, engaged in binding rawhide "boots" to the animal's feet. These boots were squares cut from a fresh hide procured from the last ox slaughtered by the soldier-butcher. The foot of the ox being set in the centre, the square was gathered about the ankle and fastened with a thong of buck-skin.

"Are all of your cattle in this condition, Mr. Arnold?" I asked.

"Only one other's 's bad's this, but all uv 'em's bad."

"That certainly is a very bad-looking foot. I don't see how you kept up, with cattle in that condition."

"Had to, or git left."

"That's where you make a mistake. We could not leave you behind."

"I didn't think 'twould be uv any use t' say anythin'," said Mr. Arnold. "You seem t' have all you can haul now."

"We have over three hundred head of oxen in our commissary herd that we purchased of a freighter. We can exchange with you. A beef is a beef. Turn your cattle into our herd, and catch up a new lot. When we get to Prescott you can have your old teams if you want them."

"Thank you agin, sir. I shall want 'em. They know my ways an' I know theirs."

From the top of the divide the road, smooth and hard, descended to the river, ten miles away. At nine o'clock the head of the column had reached the banks, and a few moments later men and horses had partaken of the clear, cool water.

As the infantry and cavalry moved away from the shore the wagons came down the decline, the mules braying with excitement at the sight of the water gleaming through the green foliage of the cottonwoods and the verdant acres of rich grass that stretched along the river-side. Brakes were put on and wheels double-locked, until the harness could be stripped off and the half-frantic animals set free to take a turn in the river.

Sheep and oxen plunged down the banks and stood leg-deep in the current while they drank the grateful water. A few moments later all the refreshed animals were cropping the generous grass. As I was going to Captain Bayard I observed Brenda Arnold taking the odometer from its wheel and making an entry in a note-book. Approaching her, I asked: "Why are you doing that, Miss Brenda?"

"I promised Mr. Frank I would do it until he and Mr. Henry return," was her answer.

"Promised Frank? Where has he gone?"

"Gone to find his brother."

"And you knew what you are telling me when we were exchanging oxen this morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why did you not tell me?"

"Mr. Frank said I must not before we arrived here."

"Have you no idea of the fearful danger in which he has placed himself?"

"I know he has gone to find Henry, and that he said he should find him," and the pretty girl betrayed her lack of confidence in the boy's project by sitting down in the grass and bursting into tears.

"When did Corporal Frank start?" I asked.

"Last night. He gave Sancho about a dozen pounds of hard bread, filled his canteen with water which Aunt Martha had filtered through sand, and asked me to attend to the odometer, and rode off in the darkness. Don't you really believe the boys will return, sir?"

"God grant they may," I answered; "but it is very doubtful."

Here was fresh trouble—trouble the whole command shared, but which rested heaviest upon Captain Bayard and myself. We were answerable to Colonel Burton for the manner in which we executed his trust.

"Ride down the valley," said the captain to me after I had concluded my account of what Brenda had said, "and look for Lieutenant Hubbell's camp. It cannot be far from here. Tell him to send me three days' grain for forty animals. While you are gone I will select a camp farther down stream, and within easy communication with him, park the train, and establish order. We will remain here until we know what has become of the boys."

I found the New Mexican cavalry camp three miles down the river, and obtained the desired forage. When I returned our new camp was established, fires burning, and cooking well under way.

Captain Bayard informed me that the detachment of Mexican cavalry which had accompanied us thus far would leave at this point and not rejoin us. "I have ordered Baldwin to grain his horses and be ready to start in search of our boys at daybreak," continued the captain. "You will accompany him. We shall be in no danger, with Hubbell so near. You can take thirty pounds of grain on your saddles, and you will find plenty of water on the Carizo where it breaks from the hills."

"How many days are we to stay out?"

"You are to take five days' rations. If the boys are not found in that time I fear they will never be found."

I went to bed early, and soon fell into a fitful slumber, which lasted until an hour before midnight. I arose, dressed, and sat down by the smouldering camp-fire, a prey to unpleasant reflections.

Suddenly the sound of a cantering horse approaching from the north fell upon my ears. What could it mean? I listened intently. The horse slowed down to a walk. He entered the camp. The voice of Private Tom Clary, who was posted as sentinel No. 1, challenged: "Halt!—who comes there?"

"A friend—Corporal Frank Burton," was the answer.

"Blest be the saints! Corpril Frank, laddie, is it you—and aloive?" said the sentinel, forgetting in his joy to continue the usual formality of the challenge or to call the corporal of the guard.

Springing from my seat I walked towards the sentinel, and there, by the light of the moon, I saw Frank, mounted upon Sancho, with Vic in his arms. I reached up to take my dog, but the boy quickly exclaimed:

"Be careful, sir, be careful! She's badly hurt. Here's the letter she brought. Henry is alive."

To attempt to relate all that now occurred would be impossible. In some mysterious manner the news of Frank's arrival crept through the camp, and half-dressed figures of officers and soldiers gathered about the camp-fire, curious to listen to an account of the boy's adventure. One little, blanketed figure ran out of the darkness, caught Vic's face between her two palms, nestled her cheek against it, and with a cheerful "good-night," disappeared as suddenly as she had come.

I took Vic in my lap as I sat on the ground, and by the light of a blazing pine-knot proceeded to examine her condition. I found the mouth and feet of the poor animal full of the spines of the cholla cactus, a growth which is simply a mass of fine thorns. This cactus grows in patches, and when the dead clusters fall to the ground the spines stick to everything touching them. The dog had stepped into a bed of these bunched needles, and filled her feet, and in trying to remove them with her teeth had thrust them through cheeks, lips, and tongue, literally closing her jaws. Her paws bristled with them like pin-cushions.

As to Frank's adventures: After leaving the Arnolds, as already described by Brenda, he retraced the route to Carizo Creek and to the Rio Puerco without seeing any sign of his brother. Returning to the west he dismounted at the crossing of the Carizo. He felt sure that if Henry had been captured by the Navajos he must have been taken in the dry bed of that creek.

A long and patient search resulted in the discovery of tracks made by several ponies running along the eastern side of the Carizo to the north and the hills. One of the set showed the print of iron shoes. Frank mounted again and followed this trail up the valley for some hours. He was thinking about returning, when he saw a white object moving on a hill-side, far in advance. It seemed to tumble, rise, and go in a circle, then tumble, rise, and circle again. Frank's curiosity was aroused, and he rode on to examine the object. A few hundred yards more revealed the fact that he had come upon the missing Vic, and that something was seriously the matter with her. At first Frank thought she was mad or in a fit, but as he came nearer she sat up and made demonstrations of joy at his approach. He dismounted, and found her in the condition already described. On the ground was a chip, neatly cut and shaven, which she was in vain attempting to take between her sealed jaws. Frank understood the matter at once. Whenever Victoriana was sent on a message she was given a stick to deliver. It was plain that some one had sent her to either Frank or me. Of course, it could have been no one but Henry. She had come thus far, and had stepped into a bed of cholla. In trying to remove the needles from her feet she had absolutely sealed her mouth; in the attempt to recover the chip she had made the movements that had attracted the boy's attention.

Nothing was written on the stick. Around the dog's neck was tied a cravat of dirty buck-skin. Untying and opening it, Frank found the inner surface covered with writing, evidently traced in berry-juice with a quill or a stick. It read as follows:

I remained at the fire long after every one had returned to their beds or duty, busy in extracting the cholla spines from Vic's mouth and feet. The dog seemed to understand the necessity of the treatment she was receiving, and bore the pain submissively, with only occasional moans and cries, until the operation ended. She then received a drink of water, and went to bed with Frank.

At daybreak the rescue detachment left camp, retraced our route to the Carizo, where Corporal Frank put us upon the trail of the Indians. We climbed to the highest point reached by the path, and saw it descend on the opposite side to a brook, deep in the valley. Here we halted, took the horses a short distance down the slope we had just ascended, picketed them in a grassy nook, and Frank and I started to ascend the left peak.

"Mr. Baldwin," I said, as I moved away, "when you see us start to return, saddle and bridle as rapidly as possible, so as to be ready for emergencies."

"I'll do so. You can depend upon us to be ready when wanted," was the reply.

We scrambled through a scattering growth of piÑon and junipers for several yards, and at last came to a perpendicular shaft of sandstone twenty feet high, with a flat top. The diameter of the shaft was about fifty feet.

"Henry could not have come up here, or he never would have set us to attempt an impossibility," said Frank, as his eyes ran up and down the rock.

"Perhaps it may not be so impossible as it appears," I replied. "Let us walk round the butte."

We passed to the right, and, having found a practicable place for attempting the ascent, accomplished the feat in a few moments.

On the flat summit we found the remains of former fires that had undoubtedly been lighted as signals. The view was grand and extensive. Directly to the north lay many verdant valleys—grazing-grounds of the nomadic Navajos. One of these valleys lay at the foot of the mountain upon which we stood, with a bright stream of water crossing its hither border. Well out in the valley were several flocks of sheep and goats, and close to the opposite side of the brook was a herd of ponies.

After Frank had looked long and anxiously towards the flocks and herds, he said: "Those specks near the ponies must be men, I suppose. I wonder if Henry is among them? Shall I make the signal?"

"Not yet. It is not yet noon. Let us lie down among these rocks, where we shall be less conspicuous, and use the field-glass."

"Tell me what you see, sir, if you please."

"There are five large flocks of sheep in the charge of a lot of women, some mounted and some on foot. The pony herd, which must number several hundred, is in charge of three naked Indians—boys, I think. There are no other persons in sight. Take a look for yourself."

Frank accepted the glass and surveyed the valley. "I can see nothing that looks like Henry," he said. "He certainly cannot be there. Why are those boys so ghostly white?"

"They are covered with yeso to protect them from sunburn."

"Oh yes—whitewash."

"Gypsum. The Mexicans use it for whitewash, and to preserve the complexion."

"Well, those boys must have plastered it on thick; they look like living statues. Not a rag on them except 'breech-clouts.' Hello, there comes a troop around that mound to the right. Must be two hundred men."

Taking the glass, I looked again. Coming into sight from the opposite side of an elevation on the farther side of the valley was a party of two hundred and fifteen Navajo warriors. They rode to each flock of sheep in succession, stopped near the women a few moments, and then came down to the pony herd. They approached the boys, and one large Indian, who appeared to be the chief, lifted the smaller boy out of his saddle, and, swinging him to his shoulder, dashed around the herd at full speed, and then set him back in his own saddle, and patted him approvingly on the back.

The party next proceeded to exchange the ponies they were riding for fresh ones from the herd, and then disappeared behind the trees which bordered the brook to the west.

"The pony that small boy rides looks like Chiquita," remarked Frank; "but the saddle and bridle are different. SeÑora Perea said that Manuel was herding ponies for the Navajos, and that he was naked."

"Yes, I know; but the letter Vic brought from Henry made no mention of another boy, and there are three with that herd. But let us make the signal and see what will happen."

Standing up and advancing to the edge of the butte's top, I waved my handkerchief from side to side, keeping my eyes fixed upon the three boys. They formed in line, facing us, looked long in our direction, and then, as if started by a spring, they flew down the plain, leaped the brook, and galloped up the long ascent towards the concealed cavalrymen.