I knew the "story" to which Rube had reference. Lige and Le Blanc, when at the village, had heard some rumour of an Indian foray that had just been made against one of the Mexican towns, not far from the rancheria.

It had occurred on the same day that we marched out. The Indians-- supposed to be Lipans or Comanches--had sacked the place, and carried off both plunder and captives. A party of them had passed near the rancheria after we ourselves had left it. This party had "called" at the hacienda de Vargas and completed the pillage, left unfinished by the guerilla. This was the substance of what the messengers had heard.

"You mean about the Injuns?" said Garey, half interrogatively.

"In coorse," rejoined Rube. "Belike enuf, 'em Injuns ur the same niggurs we gin sich a rib-roastin' to by the moun. Wagh! they hain't gone back to thur mountains, as 'twur b'lieved: they dassent 'a gone back in sich disgrace, 'ithout takin' eyther har or hosses. The squaws ud 'a hooted 'em out o' thur wigwams."

"Sure enough."

"Sure, sartint. Wal, Billee, 'ee see now what I mean: thet party's been a skulketin' 'bout hyur ever since, till they got a fust-rate chance at the Mexikin town, an thur they've _struck a blow_."

"It's mighty like as you say, Rube; but why have they sot fire to the parairy?"

"Wagh! Bill, kin ye not see why? it ur plain as Pike's Peak on a summery day."

"I don't see," responded Garey, in a thoughtful tone.

"Well, this child _do_; an this ur the reezun: as I tell 'ee, the Injuns hain't forgot the lambaystin they hed by the moun; an preehaps bein' now a weak party, an thinkin' thet we as wolloped 'em wur still i' the rancherie, they wur afeerd thet on hearing o' thur pilledgin', we mout be arter 'em."

"An they've burnt the parairy to kiver thur trail?"

"Preezactly so."

"By Gosh, you're right, Rube!--it's uncommon like. But whar do you think this trail's goin? Surely the hoss hain't been caught in the fire?"

I bent forward in the saddle, and listened with acute eagerness. To my great relief, the answer of the old trapper was in the negative.

"He hain't," said he; "ne'er a bit o' it. His trail, do ee see, runs in a bee-line, or clost on a bee-line: now, ef the fire hed 'a begun afore he wur acrosst this paraira, he wud long since 'a doubled 'bout, an tuk the back track; but 'ee see he hain't did so; thurfor, I conclude he's safe through it, an the grass must 'a been sot afire ahint 'im."

I breathed freely after listening to these words. A load seemed lifted from my breast--for up to this moment I had been vainly endeavouring to combat the fearful apprehension that had shaped itself in my imagination. From the moment that we had entered the burning prairie, my eyes constantly, and almost mechanically, had sought the ground in front of our course, had wandered over it, with uneasy glance, in dread of beholding forms--lifeless--burned and charred--

The words of the trapper gave relief--almost an assurance that the steed and his rider were still safe--and under the inspiration of renewed hope, I rode forward with lighter heart.

CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

"INJUN SIGN."

After a pause, the guides resumed their conversation, and I continued to listen.

I had a reason for not mingling in it. If I joined them in their counsels, they might not express their convictions so freely, and I was desirous of knowing what they truly thought. By keeping close behind them, I could hear all--myself unnoticed under the cloud of dust that ascended around us. On the soft ashes, the hoof-stroke was scarcely audible--our horses gliding along in a sweeping silent walk.

"By Gosh! then," said Garey, "if Injuns fired the parairy, they must 'a done it to wind'ard, an we're travellin' right in the teeth o' the wind; we're goin in a ugly direction, Rube; what do you think o' 't, old hoss?"

"Jest what you sez, boyee--a cussed ugly direckshun--durnation'd ugly."

"It ain't many hours since the fire begun, an the redskins won't be far from t'other side, I reckon. If the hoss-trail leads us right on them, we'll be in a fix, old boy."

"Ay," replied Rube, in a low but significant drawl; "ef it do, an ef this niggur don't a miskalkerlate, it _will_ lead right on 'em, _plum straight custrut into thur camp_."

I started on hearing this. I could no longer remain silent; but brushing rapidly forward to the side of the trapper, in hasty phrase demanded his meaning.

"Jest what 'ee've heern me say, young fellur," was his reply.

"You think that there are Indians ahead? that the horse has gone to their camp?"

"No, not _gone_ thur; nor kin I say for sartint thur ur Injuns ahead; though it looks mighty like. Thur's nuthin else to guv reezun for the fire--nuthin as Bill or me kin think o'; an ef thur be Injuns, then I don't think the hoss hez _gone_ to thur camp, but I do kalkerlate it's mighty like he's been _tuk_ thur: thet's what I thinks, young fellur."

"You mean that the Indians have captured him?"

"Thet's preezactly what this child means."

"But how? What reason have you for thinking so?"

"Wal--jest because I think so."

"Pray explain, Rube!" I said in an appealing tone. I feared that his secretive instincts would get the better of him, and he would delay giving his reasons, out of the pure love of mystification that was inherent in the old fellow's nature. I was too anxious to be patient; but my appeal proved successful.

"Wal, 'ee see, young fellur, the hoss must 'a crosst hyur jest afore this paraira wur sot afire; an it's mighty reezunible to s'pose thet whosomediver did the bizness, Injun or no Injun, must 'a been to win'ard o' hyur. It ur also likely enuf, I reckun, thet the party must 'a seed the hoss; an it ur likely agin thet nobody wa'nt a gwine to see _thet_ hoss, wi' the gurl stropped down 'long his hump-ribs, 'ithout bein'

kewrious enuf to take arter 'im. Injuns 'ud be safe to go arter 'im, yellin' like blazes; an arter 'im they've gone, an roped 'im, I reckun-- thet they've done."

"You think they could have caught him?"

"Sartint. The hoss by then must 'a been dead beat--thet ur, unless he's got the divvel in 'im; an by Geehorum! I gin to surspect--Gehu-- Gehosophat! jest as I said; lookee, thur--thur!"

"What is it?" I inquired, seeing the speaker suddenly halt and point to the ground, upon which his eyes also were fixed. "What is it, Rube? I can perceive nothing strange."

"Don't 'ee see 'em hoss-tracks?--thur!--thick as sheep-feet--hundreds o'

'em!"

I certainly noticed some slight hollows in the surface, nearly levelled up by the black ashes. I should not have known them to be horse-tracks.

"They ur," said Rube, "every one o' 'em--an Injun hoss-tracks too-- sartint they ur."

"They may be the wild-hosses, Rube?" said one of the rangers, riding up and surveying the sign.

"Wild jackasses!" angrily retorted the old trapper. "Whur did _you_ ever see a wild-hoss? Do 'ee s'pose I've turned stone-blind, do 'ee?

Stan thur, my mar!" he cried, talking to his mare, flinging his lean carcass out of the saddle at the same time: "stan thur! 'ee knows better than thet fellur, I kin tell by the way yur sniftin'. Keep yur ground a minnit, ole gurl, till Rube Rawlins shew these hyur greenhorns how a mountain man kin read sign--wild-hosses! wagh!"

After thus delivering himself, the trapper dropped upon his knees, placed his lips close to the ground, and commenced blowing at the black ashes.

The others had by this time ridden up, and sat in their saddles watching him. We saw that he was clearing the ashes out of one of the hollows which he had pronounced to be horse-tracks, and which now proved to be so.

"'Thur now, mister!" said he, turning triumphantly, and rather savagely, upon the ranger who had questioned the truth of his conjecture: "thur's a _shod_ track--shod wi' parflesh too. Did 'ee ever see a wild-hoss, or a wild mule, or a wild jackass eyther, shod wi' parflesh? Ef 'ee did, it's more'n Rube Rawlins ever seed, an thet ur trapper's been on the hoss-plains well-nigh forty yeern. Wagh!"

Of course, there was no reply to this interrogatory. There was the track; and, dismounting, all examined it in turn.

Sure enough it was the track of a shod horse--shod with _parfleche_-- thick leather made from the hide of the buffalo bull.