8 New Enemies

The two were in splendid spirits. They had escaped great dangers, and they were on horseback once more. It is true, they were somewhat short on armament, but Breakstone took Phil’s pistol, while the latter kept the rifle, and they were confident that they could find game enough on the plains until they overtook the wagon train. The horses themselves seemed glad of the companionship of their old masters, and went forward readily and at an easy pace through the woods. They soon found the path by which they had come, and followed it until they crossed the river and reached the site of the camp. But the trail toward the plain lay before them broad and easy.

“They can’t have gone long,” said Breakstone. “They may have thought that we were merely loitering behind for some purpose of our own and would soon overtake them. A whole train isn’t going to linger about for two fellows well mounted and well armed who are supposed to know how to take care of themselves. But, Sir Philip of the Youthful Countenance, I don’t think that Middleton and Arenberg would go ahead without us.”

“Neither do I,” said Phil with emphasis. “I as good as know that they’re looking for us in these woods, and we’ve got to stay behind and find them, taking the risk of Comanches.”

“Wherein I do heartily agree with you, and I’m going to take a chance right now. It is likely that the two, after fruitless searches for us, would return here at intervals, and, in a region like this, the sound of a shot will travel far. Fire the rifle, Phil, and it may bring them. It’s often used as a signal. If it brings the Comanches instead, we’re on our horses, and they’re strong and swift.”

Phil fired a shot, but there was no response. He waited half an hour and fired a second time, with the same result. After another half hour, the third shot was fired, and, four or five minutes later, Breakstone announced that he heard the tread of hoofs. It was a faint, distant sound, but Phil, too, heard it, and he was confident that it was made by hoofs. The two looked at each other, and each read the question in the other’s eye. Who were coming in reply to the call of that third rifle shot, red men or white?

“We’ll just draw back a little behind this clump of bushes,” said Breakstone. “We can see a long way through their tops, and not be seen until the riders come very close. Then, if the visitors to this Forest of Arden of ours, Sir Philip, are not those whom we wish to see, it’s up and away with us.”

They waited in strained eagerness. The sounds grew louder. It was certain, moreover, that the riders were coming straight toward the point at which the rifle had been fired.

“Judging from the hoof beats, how many would you say they are?” asked Phil.

“Not many. Maybe three or four, certainly not more. But I’m hoping that it’s two, neither more nor less.”

On came the horsemen, the hoofbeats steadily growing louder. Phil rose in his stirrups and gained a further view. He saw the top of a soft hat and then the top of another. In a half minute the faces beneath came into view. He knew them both, and he uttered a cry of joy.

“Middleton and Arenberg!” he exclaimed. “Here they come!”

“Our luck still holds good,” said Bill Breakstone. He and Phil galloped from behind the bushes and shouted as warm a welcome as men ever had. They received one equally warm in return, as Middleton and the German urged their horses forward. Then there was a mighty shaking of hands and mutual congratulations.

“The train left yesterday morning,” said Middleton, “but we couldn’t give you up. We scouted all the way across the forest and saw the Comanches on the other side. There was nothing to indicate anything unusual among them, such as a sacrifice of prisoners, and we hoped that if you had been taken by them you had escaped, and we came back here to see, knowing that if you were able you would return to this place. We were right in one part of our guess, because here you are.”

“And mighty glad we are to be here,” said Bill Breakstone, “and I want to say to you that I, Bill Breakstone, who may not be of so much importance to the world, but who is of vast importance to himself, would not be here at all, or anywhere else, for that matter, if it were not for this valiant and skillful youth, Sir Philip Bedford, Knight of the Texas plains.”

“Stop, Bill,” exclaimed Phil blushing. “Don’t talk that way.”

“Talk that way! Of course I will! And I’ll pile it up, too! And after I pile it up and keep on piling it up, it won’t be the whole truth. Cap, and you, Hans, old fellow, Phil and I were not taken together, because Phil was never taken at all. It was I alone who sat still, shut my eyes, and closed my ears while I let three of the ugliest Comanche warriors that were ever born walk up, lay violent hands on me, harness me up in all sorts of thongs and withes, and carry me off to their village, where they would have had some red sport with me if Phil hadn’t come, when they were all mad with a great dance, and taken me away.”

Then he told the story in detail, and Phil, shy and blushing, was compelled to receive their compliments, which were many and sincere. But he insisted that he merely succeeded through good luck, which Bill Breakstone warmly denied.

“Well, between the two of you, you have certainly got out of it well.” said Middleton, “and, as we are reunited, we must plan for the next step. We can easily overtake the train by to-morrow, but I’m of the opinion that we’ll have to be very careful, and that we must do some scouting, also. Arenberg and I have discovered that the Comanche warriors are on the move again. Their whole force of warriors seemed to be getting ready to leave the village, and they may be planning, after all, a second attack upon the train, a night surprise, or something of that kind. We, too, will have to be careful lest we run into them.”

“Then it maybe for the good of the train that we were left back here.” said Phil, “because we will return with a warning.”

“It may be the hand of Providence,” said Arenberg, “since the Comanches did no harm where much was intended.”

As both Middleton and Arenberg were firmly convinced that the plain would be thick with Comanche scouts, making their passage by daylight impossible, or at least extremely hazardous, they decided to remain in the woods until nightfall. They rode a couple of miles from the camp, tethered their horses in thick bushes, and, sitting near them, waited placidly. Phil, Breakstone, and Arenberg talked in low tones, but Middleton sat silent. Phil noticed presently that “The Cap” was preoccupied. Little lines of thought ran down from his eyes to the corners of his nose.

Phil began to wonder again about the nature of Middleton’s mission. Every one of the four was engaged upon some great quest, and none of them knew the secret of any of the others. Nor, in the rush of events, had they been left much time to think about such matters.

Now Phil again studied Middleton more closely. There was something in the unaccustomed lines of his face and his thoughtful eye indicating a belief that for him, at least, the object of the quest might be drawing nigh. At least, it seemed so to the boy. He studied, too, Middleton’s clean cut face, and the sharp line of his strong chin. Phil had noticed before that this man was uncommonly neat in his personal appearance. It was a neatness altogether beyond what one usually saw on the plains. His clothing was always clean and in order, he carried a razor, and he shaved every day. Nor did he ever walk with a slovenly, lounging gait.

Phil decided that something very uncommon must have sent him with the Santa Fé train, but he would not ask; he had far too much delicacy to pry into the secret of another, who did not pry into his own.

Middleton and Arenberg had ample food in their saddlebags and Phil and Breakstone combined with it their stock of deer meat. Nothing disturbed them in the thicket, and at nightfall they mounted and rode out into the plain

“I know something about this country before us,” said Breakstone. “It runs on in rolling swells for a march of many days, without any streams except shallow creeks, and without any timber except the fringes of cottonwoods along these creeks.”

“And I know which way to go in order to overtake the train,” said Middleton. “Woodfall said that they would head straight west, and we are certainly good enough plainsmen to keep our noses pointed that way.”

“We are, we surely are,” said Bill Breakstone, “but we must keep a good watch for those Comanche scouts. They hide behind the swells on their ponies, and they blend so well with the dusky earth that you’d never notice ’em until they had passed the signal on to others that you were coming and that it was a good time to form an ambush.”

There was a fair sky, with a moon and some clear stars, and they could see several hundred yards, but beyond that the whole horizon fused into a dusky wall. They rode at a long, swinging pace, and the hoofs of their horses made little noise on the new spring turf. The wind of the plains, which seldom ceases, blew gently in their faces and brought with it a soft crooning sound. Its note was very pleasant in the ears of Philip Bedford. In the saddle and with his best friends again, he felt that he could defy anything. He felt, too, and perhaps the feeling was due to his physical well-being and recovered safety, that he, also, was coming nearer to the object of his quest. Involuntarily he put his left hand on his coat, where the paper which he had read so often lay securely in a little inside pocket. He knew every word of it by heart, but when the time came, and he was alone, he would take it out and read it again. It was this paper that was always calling to him.

They rode on, crossing swell after swell, and, after the first hour, the four did not talk. It was likely that every one was thinking of his own secret.

They came about midnight to a prairie creek, a stream of water two or three yards wide and a few inches deep, flowing in a bed of sand perhaps fifteen yards across. A thin fringe of low cottonwoods and some willows grew on either shore. They approached warily, knowing that such a place offered a good ambush, and realizing that four would not have much chance against a large Comanche war band.

“But I don’t think there is much danger,” said Bill Breakstone. “If the Comanches are up to mischief again, they’re not looking for stray parties; their mind is on the train, and, by the way, the train has passed along here. Look down, and in this moonlight you can see plainly enough the tracks of a hundred wheels.”

“The horses are confident,” said Middleton, “and I think we can be so, too.”

The horses were advancing without hesitation, and it soon became evident that nothing was concealed among the scanty lines of trees and bushes.

“Look out for quicksands,” said Arenberg. “It iss not pleasant to be swallowed up in one of them and feel that you have died such a useless death.”

“There is no danger,” said Phil, whose quick eye was following the trail of the wagons. “Here is where the train crossed, and if the wagons didn’t sink we won’t.”

The water being cold and entirely free from alkali, the horses drank eagerly, and their riders, also, took the chance to refill their canteens, which they always carried strapped to their saddle bows. They also rested awhile, but, when they remounted and rode on, Middleton noticed a light to the northward. On the plains then, no man would pass a light without giving it particular attention, and the four sat on their horses for some minutes studying it closely. They thought at first that it might be a signal light of the Comanches, but, as it did not waver, they concluded that it must be a camp fire.

“Now I’m thinking,” said Bill Breakstone, “that we oughtn’t to leave a camp fire burning away here on the plains, and we not knowing anything about it. It won’t take us long to ride up and inspect it.”

“That is a truth,” said Middleton. “It is not a difficult matter for four horsemen to overtake a wagon train, but we’ll first see what that fire means.”

“It iss our duty to do so,” said the phlegmatic German.

They rode straight toward the light, and their belief that it was a camp fire was soon confirmed. They saw the red blaze rising and quivering, and then dusky figures passing and repassing before it.

“We’re yet too far away to tell exactly what those figures are,” said Bill Breakstone, “but I don’t see any sign of long hair or war bonnets, and so I take it that they are not Comanchee, nor any other kind of Indians, for that matter. No warriors would build so careless a fire or wander so carelessly about it.”

“They are white men,” said Middleton with conviction, as he increased his horse’s pace. “Ah, I see now! Mexicans! Look at the shadows of their great conical hats as they pass before the fire.”

“Now I wonder what they’re doing here on Texas soil,” said Bill Breakstone.

Middleton did not answer, but Phil noticed that the look in his eyes was singularly tense and eager. As they drew near the fire, which was a large one, and the hoof-beats of their horses were heard, two men in Mexican dress, tall conical broad-brimmed hats, embroidered coats and trousers and riding boots, bearing great spurs, came forward to meet them. Phil saw another figure, which had been lying on a blanket by the fire, rise and stand at attention. He instantly perceived, even then, something familiar in the figure.

The four rode boldly forward, and Middleton called out:

“We are friends!”

The two Mexicans who were in advance, rifle in hand, stood irresolutely, and glanced at the man behind them, who had just risen from his blanket.

“You are welcome,” said this man in good English but with a strong Mexican accent. “We are glad for anybody to share with us our camp fire in this wilderness. Dismount, Señores.”

Then Phil knew him well. It was Pedro de Armijo, the young Mexican whom he had seen with the Mexican envoy, Zucorra, in New Orleans, one whom he had instinctively disliked, one whom he was exceedingly astonished to see at such a time and place. Middleton also recognized him, because he raised his cap and said politely:

“This is a pleasant meeting. You are Captain Pedro de Armijo, who came to our capital with His Excellency Don Augustin Xavier Hernando Zucorra on a mission, intended to be of benefit to both our countries. My name is Middleton, George Middleton, and these are my friends, Mr. Breakstone, Mr. Arenberg, and Mr. Bedford.”

De Armijo gave every one in turn a quick scrutinizing look, and, with flowing compliment, bade them welcome to his fireside. It seemed that he did not remember Middleton, but that he took for granted their former meeting in Washington. Phil liked him none the more because of the polite words he used. He was not one to hold prejudice because of race, but this Mexican had a manner supercilious and conceited that inspired resentment.

“It seems strange, Señor Middleton.” said de Armijo, “that we should meet again in such a place on these vast plains, so far from a house or any other human beings, plains that were once Mexican, but which you now call yours.”

De Armijo glided over the last words smoothly, but the blood leaped in Phil’s temples. Middleton apparently took no notice, but said that he and his comrades were riding across the plains mainly on an exploring expedition. As there was some danger from Comanches, they were traveling partly by night, and, having seen the camp fire, they had come to investigate it, after the custom of the wilderness.

“And, now that you have found us,” said de Armijo with elaborate courtesy, “I have reason to believe that you would run into Comanche horsemen a little farther on. They would not harm us Mexicans, with whom they are at peace, but for you Americans they would have little mercy. Stay with us for the remainder of the night.”

He smiled, showing his white teeth, and Middleton smiled back as he replied:

“Your courtesy is appreciated, Captain de Armijo. We shall stay. It is pleasant, too, to welcome a gallant Mexican officer like yourself to American soil.”

The eyes of de Armijo snapped in the firelight, and the white teeth were bared again. Phil knew that he resented the expression “American soil.” Mexico still maintained a claim to Texas—which it could not make good—and he felt equally confident that Middleton had used it purposely. It seemed to him that some sort of duel was in progress between the two, and he watched it with overwhelming curiosity. But de Armijo quickly returned to his polite manner.

“You speak the truth,” he said. “It is I who am your guest, not you who are mine. It was Mexican soil once, and before that Spanish—three centuries under our race—but now gone, I suppose, forever.”

Middleton did not reply, but approached the fire and warmed his hands over the blaze. The night was cold and the flames looked cheerful. The others tethered their horses, and all except the two who had met the Americans took their places by the fire. The Mexicans were six in number. Only de Armijo seemed to be a man of any distinction. The others, although stalwart and well armed, were evidently of the peon class. Phil wondered what this little party was doing here, and the conviction grew upon him that the meeting had something to do with Middleton’s mission.

“I am sorry,” said de Armijo, “that we do not even have a tent to offer you, but doubtless you are accustomed to sleeping under the open sky, and the air of these plains is dry and healthy.”

“A blanket and a few coals to warm one’s feet are sufficient,” said Middleton. “We will avail ourselves of your courtesy and not keep you awake any longer.”

Both Breakstone and Arenberg glanced at Middleton, but they said nothing, wrapping themselves in their blankets, and lying down, with their feet to the fire. Phil did the same, but he thought it a strange proceeding, this apparently unguarded camping with Mexicans, who at the best were not friends, with the possibility of Comanches who were, at all times, the bitterest and most dangerous of enemies. Yet Middleton must have some good reason, he was not a man to do anything rash or foolish, and Phil awaited the issue with confidence.

Phil could not sleep. The meeting had stirred him too much, and his nerves would not relax. He lay before the fire, his feet within a yard of the coals, and his head in the crook of his arm. Now and then he heard a horse move or stamp his hoofs, but all the men were silent. De Armijo, lying on a blanket and with a fine blue cavalry cloak spread over him, seemed to be asleep, but as he was on the other side of the fire Phil could not see his eyes. Middleton was nearer, and he saw his chest rising and falling with the regularity of one who sleeps.

It all seemed very peaceful, very restful. Perhaps de Armijo’s hospitality was real, and he had wronged him with his suspicions. But reason with himself as he would, Phil could not overcome his dislike and distrust. Something was wrong, and something was going to happen, yet much time passed and nothing happened. De Armijo’s eyes were still shaded by his cloak, but his long figure lay motionless. Only a few live coals remained from the fire, and beyond a radius of twenty feet lay the encircling rim of the darkness. At the line where light and dark met, crouched the two peons with their rifles across their knees. It was Phil’s opinion that they, too, slept in this sitting posture. Surely de Armijo and his men had great confidence in their security, and must be on the best of terms with the Comanches! If so, it might increase the safety of the little American party, also, but the boy yet wondered why Middleton had stopped when they were all so eager to reach the wagon train and warn it of the new danger.

Phil stirred once or twice, but only to ease his position, and he did it without noise. His eyes were shaded by the brim of his soft hat, but he watched the circle about the fire, and most of all he watched de Armijo. An interminable period of time passed, every second growing to ten times its proper length. Phil was as wakeful as ever, but so much watching made the figures about the fire dim and uncertain. They seemed to shift their places, but the boy was still resolved to keep awake, although everybody else slept through the night. His premonition was yet with him, his heart expanded, and his pulse beat faster.

The remaining coals died one by one. The circle of light, already small, contracted still more, became a point, and then vanished. Everything now lay in the dark, and the figures were merely blacker shapes against the blackness. Then, after that long waiting, with every second and minute drawn out tenfold, Phil’s premonition came true. Something happened.

De Armijo moved. He moved ever so slightly, but Phil saw him, and, lying perfectly still himself, he watched him with an absorbed attention, and a heart that had increased its beating still further. De Armijo’s body itself had not moved, it was merely one hand that had come slowly from under the covering of the cloak, and that now lay white against the blue cloth. A man might move his hand thus in sleep, but it seemed to Phil that the action was guided by a conscious mind. Intent, he watched, and presently his reward came. The other hand also slid from beneath the cloak, and, like its fellow, lay white against the blue cloth. Now both hands were still, but Phil yet waited, confident that more would come. It was all very quiet and slow, like the craft and cunning of the Indian, but Phil was willing to match it with a patience and craft of his own.

At last the whole figure of de Armijo stirred. Phil saw the blue cloak tremble slightly. Then the man raised his head ever so little and looked about the dark circle. Slowly he let the head fall back, and the figure became still again. But the boy was not deceived. Already every suspicion had been verified in his mind, and his premonition was proved absolutely true.

Pedro de Armijo raised himself again, but a little higher this time, and he did not let his head and body drop back. He looked about the circle with a gaze that Phil knew must be sharp and scrutinizing, although it was too dark for him to see the expression of his eyes. The Mexican seemed satisfied with his second examination, and then, dropping softly on his hands and knees, he crept toward Middleton. It occurred to Phil afterward that this approach toward Middleton did not surprise him. In reality, it was just what he had expected de Armijo to do.

The boy was uncertain about his own course, and, like one under a spell, be waited. The dusky figure of de Armijo creeping toward Middleton had a sinuous motion like that of a great snake, and Phil’s hand slipped down to the hammer of his rifle, but he would not fire. He noticed that de Armijo had drawn no weapon, and he did not believe that murder was his intention.

Middleton did not move. He lay easily upon his right side, and Phil judged that he was in a sound sleep. De Armijo, absorbed in his task, did not look back. Hence he did not see the boy who rose slowly to a sitting posture, a ready rifle in his hands.

Phil saw de Armijo reach Middleton’s side and pause there a moment or two. He still drew no weapon, and this was further proof that murder was not in the Mexican’s mind, but Phil believed that whatever lay between these two was now at the edge of the crisis. He saw de Armijo raise his hand and put it to Middleton’s breast with the evident intention of opening his coat. So he was a thief! But the fingers stopped there as Phil leveled his rifle and called sharply:

“Hands up, de Armijo, or I shoot!”

The startled Mexican would have thrown up his hands, but he did not have time. They were seized in the powerful grasp of Middleton, and he was pulled downward upon his face.

“Ah, would you, de Armijo!” cried Middleton in exultant tones. “We have caught you! Good boy, Phil, you were watching, too!”

All the others were up in an instant, but Breakstone and Arenberg were too quick for the Mexicans. They covered them with their rifle muzzles before their antagonists could raise their weapons.

“Throw down every gun and pistol!” said Breakstone sternly. “There, by the log, and we’ll see what’s going forward!”

Sullenly the Mexicans complied, and then stood in a little huddled group, looking at their fallen leader, whom Middleton still held upon the ground, but who was pouring out muffled oaths from a face that was in the dirt.

“Take his pistols, Phil,” said Middleton, and the boy promptly removed them. Then Middleton released him, and de Armijo sat up, his face black as night, his heart raging with anger, hate, and humiliation.

“How dare you attack me in my own camp! You whom we received as guests!” he cried.

“We did not attack you.” replied Middleton calmly. He had risen to his feet, and he towered over the Mexican like an accusing judge. “It is you who attacked us, or me, rather, and you intended, if you did not get what you wanted with smooth fingers, to use violence. You cannot deny that, Captain Pedro de Armijo of the Mexican army; there were at least two witnesses of your act, Philip Bedford and myself.”

De Armijo looked down at the ground, and seemed to commune with himself for a few moments. Then he stood at his full height, brushed the traces of dirt from his clothes, and gave Middleton a look of uncompromising defiance and hostility. All at once it struck Phil that this was a man of ability and energy, one who could be a bitter and dangerous enemy.

“You are right in part, Captain Middleton.” said de Armijo slowly. “I was seeking to take the maps, letters, and instructions that you carry inside your tunic, next, perhaps, to your very flesh. They would be valuable possessions to us, and it was my duty, as a captain in the Mexican army, to take them if I could, from you, a captain in the American army.”

Phil started and looked anew at Middleton. A captain in the American army! This was why he had walked with that upright carriage! This was why he had been so particular about his personal appearance! He began to see a little way.

“We, too, have our channels of information,” said de Armijo, “and I knew that you had embarked upon a mission in the West to learn our movements and forces upon the border, and our temper and disposition with regard to great matters that are agitating both Mexico and America.”

“It is true, all that you say,” replied Middleton tranquilly. “I am Captain George Middleton of the American regular troops, and, at the request of our War Department, I undertook the hazardous mission of which you speak.”

“You will go no farther with it,” said de Armijo.

“How can you keep me from it?”

“I cannot—perhaps, but events can—events have. You do not know, but I do, Captain Middleton, that there is war between your country and mine.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Middleton, and, despite the darkness, Phil saw a sudden flush spring into his face.

“It is not only war,” continued de Armijo, “but there has been a heavy battle, two of them, in fact. Your troops met ours at Palo Alto on May eighth, and again on the following day at Resaca de la Palma.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Middleton again, the exclamation being drawn up from the very depths of his being, while the flush on his face deepened. “And you know, I suppose, which won?”

It was a peculiar coincidence that the moon’s rays made their way at that moment through clouds, and a bright beam fell on the face of Pedro de Armijo. Phil saw the Mexican’s face fall a little, despite all his efforts at self-control. De Armijo himself felt this change in his countenance, and, knowing what it indicated to the man who asked the question, he replied without evasion:

“I regret to say that the fortunes of war were against the deserving. Our brave general, Ampudia, and our gallant troops were compelled to retire before your general, Taylor. At least, so say my hasty advices; perhaps they are wrong.”

But Phil could see that de Armijo had no such hope. The news was correct, and the boy’s heart thrilled with joy because the first victories had fallen to his own people.

“I would not have told you this,” continued de Armijo, “had you not caught me in an attempt to take your papers. Had it been peace, ‘steal’ would have been the word, but since it is war ‘steal’ turns to enterprise and zeal. Had I not believed you ignorant that the war has begun, and that I might make more profit out of you in our hands than as a fugitive, or at least as one who might have escaped, I should have opened fire upon you as you approached. Perhaps I made a mistake.”

“All of us do at times,” said Middleton thoughtfully.

“Well spoken,” said de Armijo. He lighted a cigarette and took a few easy puffs.

“Well, Captain Middleton,” he said at length, “the problem is now yours, not ours. You have taken it out of our hands. What are you going to do with us?”

“It seems to me,” said Captain Middleton, “that this problem, like most others, admits of only one solution. You are our prisoners, but we cannot hold you. Our own situation prevents it. We could kill you, but God forbid a single thought of such a crime. We will take your arms and let you. go. You will not suffer without your arms, as your Comanche friends are near, a fact which you know very well.”

“We accept your terms,” said de Armijo, “since we must, and with your permission we will mount our horses and ride away. But it is to be understood, Captain Middleton, and you, young Mr. Bedford, and the rest of you, that we part as enemies and not as friends.”

“As you will.” said Middleton. “I recognize the fact that you have no cause to love us, and perhaps the sooner we both depart from this spot the better it will be for all.”

“But we may meet again on the battlefield; is it not so?” said de Armijo.

“That, I cannot tell,” replied Middleton, “but it is not unlikely.”

Breakstone and Arenberg still stood by the captured arms, but, without casting a glance at either the arms or their guardians, de Armijo signaled to his men, and they mounted and rode away.

“Adios!” he called back in Spanish, although he did not turn his face.

“Adios!” said Middleton in the same tone.

They did not move or speak until they heard the hoof-beats die away, and then it was Bill Breakstone who first broke the silence.

“That certainly came out well,” he said. “The curtain came down on a finer finish than the first act indicated. I confess that I didn’t know your plan, Captain—I don’t call you Cap any more—but I trusted you, and I confess, also, that I fell asleep. It was you and Sir Philip of the Active Mind and the Watchful Eye who did most of the work.

“Or, at least, they ought to cry when they think how we turned the tables on them. Now, Captain, I suppose we must be up and doing, for those fellows, as you said, will go straight to the Comanches, and if we linger here our scalps will be of less value to ourselves than to anybody else.”

“It is quite true,” said Captain Middleton. “We must reach the train as soon as possible, because the danger to it has increased with our own. But even more important than that is the great change that must be made. Woodfall cannot go on now, since the whole Southwest will be swept by bands of Mexican and Indian horsemen.”

“What must the train do?” asked Phil in anxiety, because this concerned him very nearly.

“It must turn south and join the American army on the Rio Grande. Most of the things that it carries will be of value to our troops, and Woodfall will clear as much profit there as at Santa Fé, which is now a city in arms against us. In this case the path of comparative safety and honor is also the path of profit. What more could Woodfall ask?”

“He’s a brave man, and brave men are with him,” said Bill Breakstone. “You won’t have to ask him twice.”

Phil’s heart had throbbed with joy at Middleton’s answer. His quest was always in his mind. He had feared that they might turn back, but now it suited him as well to join the American army as to go on toward Santa Fé. The quest was a wide one. But Arenberg suppressed a sigh.

“Let’s be starting,” said Middleton. “We’ll take their arms with us. They’re of value, and Bill, moreover, is without a rifle or musket.”

Breakstone, who had been examining the weapons, uttered a cry of joy.

“Here is a fine rifle,” he said, “one of the best American make. I wonder how that Mexican got it! The rest are not so good.”

“Take the fine one, Bill,” said Middleton, “and we will pack up the rest and ride.”

They were out of the woods in a few minutes, and again rode rapidly toward the west. It was an easy task to pick up the great wagon trail again, even in the dark of the night, as the grass and soil were trodden or pressed down over a width of fully two hundred yards. The country rolled lightly. Bill Breakstone thought that a range of hills lay toward the north, but in the night they could not see.

“I hope that we’ll overtake Woodfall before day,” said Middleton, “because I’ve an idea that de Armijo and the little band with him are not the only Mexicans hereabouts. He would not come so far North without a considerable force, and I suspect that it is his intention to capture our train, with the aid of the Comanches.”

“We can beat them off,” said Breakstone confidently.

“If our people are warned in time.” said Middleton.

“Much harm iss meant,” said Arenberg, speaking for the first time, “but we may keep much from being done. Our most dangerous enemies before the daylight comes are the Comanches. They have already learned from de Armijo that we are here, and it iss like as not that they are now between us and the train.”

Middleton looked at his watch, holding it in the moon’s rays.

“It is two hours until day.” he said, “and the trail is rapidly growing fresher. We may yet get through before the ring closes. Ah, there they are now!”

A hand’s breadth of fire suddenly leaped up in the north, and burned there like a steady torch. Far in the east, another but fainter appeared and burned, and a third leaped up in the south. But when they looked back in the west they saw none.

“Fortune rides on our cruppers so far,” said Middleton. “We are on the side of the circle which yet has the open segment. Push on, my boys!”

Phil’s knees involuntarily pressed against the side of his horse, and that strange sensation, like icy water running down the spine, came again. Those three lights speaking to one another in the darkness and across great distances were full of mystery and awe. But he rode without speech, and he looked most of the time at the lights, which remained fixed, as if what they said could not be changed.

Middleton, who was in advance, suddenly reined in his horse, and the others, stopping, also, noticed that just in front of them a depression ran across the plain.

“It’s an arroyo or something like it.” said Bill Breakstone, “but the wagons have crossed it anyhow.”

They followed the trail to the other side and then saw that it continued almost parallel with the broad gully.

“Why shouldn’t we take to the gully?” said Phil. “It has a smooth bottom, it is wide enough for us, riding two abreast, and it will give us shelter.”

“A good idea.” said Middleton.

They turned back into the arroyo, and found an easy road there. The banks were several feet high, and, as the dusk still hung on the plain, they increased their speed, counting each moment worth one man’s life. They came soon to a place where the gully was shallower than usual, and then they saw two or three faint lights in the plain before them, apparently about a half mile away. Middleton raised a warning hand, and they stopped.

“Those are the lights of the train.” he said. “They undoubtedly have scouts out, and of course they have seen the signals of the Comanches and the Mexicans, just as we have, but they do not know as much as we do. I think we had better go down the arroyo as far as we can, and then, if the alarm is sounded by our enemies, gallop for it.”

“It iss our choice because there iss none other,” said Arenberg.

They continued, but more slowly, in order to make as little noise as possible. They had covered more than half the distance when Phil saw a faint line of gray on the horizon line in the east. The next moment against the background of gray appeared a horseman, a man of olive skin, clad in sombrero, bright jacket, embroidered trousers, and boots with great spurs. He carried a weapon like a spear, and Phil knew at once that he was a Mexican lancer, no doubt a sentinel.

The man saw them, and, instead of attempting to use his lance, snatched a pistol from his belt and fired point blank. The bullet passed by Middleton’s face, and, like a flash, Bill Breakstone replied with a bullet from his rifle. The Mexican went down, but from three points of the compass came cries, the shouts of the Mexicans and the long war whoop of the Comanches.

“Forward for your lives!” cried Middleton, and, dashing out of the arroyo, they galloped at full speed toward the wagon train.

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