"No, sir; they are not there. I have just seen the sergeant of the guard."

"Have you visited the Arnolds?"

"Yes, sir; and Miss Brenda says they have not seen him since he came back from you."

"Is not Corporal Henry here?" asked Captain Bayard, who had approached and overheard a part of our conversation.

"No, sir," I answered. "I sent him to you at Carizo to say we had found no water."

"He reported to me," the captain replied, "and I sent him back at once with orders for you to proceed to Lithodendron, as you have done."

"He did not reach me. I came here because it seemed the only thing to do."

"Henry not here!" and the captain and all of us began moving towards the train. "Cause an immediate search to be made for him. Examine every wagon. He may have got into a wagon and fallen asleep."

It is needless to say, perhaps, that this search was partic.i.p.ated in by nearly every individual in the command not too tired to stir. Henry was known to all, and had in many gentlemanly and kindly ways acquired the respect and affection of soldiers and civilian employes.

Every wagon was examined, although from the first there was a general presentiment that it would be useless. In the wagon a.s.signed to the use of the boy corporals and myself, Henry's carbine and revolver were found, but Frank said his brother had not worn them during the day.

The mule and cavalry herds were examined for the cream-colored pony, but that also was missing. Then the thought suggested itself that the lad might be wandering on the road we had just traversed; but an examination of the sergeant of the guard showed that to be impossible.

But one conclusion could be arrived at, and that was that Henry had been picked up by the Navajos when returning from the command to my detachment on the Carizo.

At the conclusion of the search the officers gathered near their wagons for a consultation. Frank remained apart, silent and miserable.

Captain Bayard said: "It is impossible for us to make an immediate pursuit with horses in such a condition as ours. To attempt a pursuit over the barren region about us would be to invite failure and disaster. If we had Mexican ponies, or Indian ponies like those of the boys, we might start at once. The boy is probably a prisoner, and a delay of one or two days can make little difference to him."

"But can we go with any better prospect of success to-morrow or next day?" I asked.

"Yes, a march of sixteen miles and a half will bring us to the Colorado Chiquito--a stream flowing at all times with pure water; there, also, we shall find abundance of gra.s.s and a recently established cavalry camp. I received a letter from the department commander before I left Wingate, stating that Lieutenant Hubbell and forty New Mexican cavalry had been ordered there three weeks ago. We shall find an abundance of grain at the camp, and can put our animals in good condition for an expedition into Elarnagan's country in a few days. Now, gentlemen, let us get such rest as we can, and start at an early hour in the morning."

IX

THE RESCUING PARTY

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 pa.s.sing 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 sh.o.r.e 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s. 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?"