which
renders it more difficult. Still, with the twin buttes behind--so long
as these are in sight they keep their course with certainty; then, as
their summits sink below the level of the plain, another landmark looms
up ahead, well known by Walt Wilder and Hamersley. It is the black-jack
grove where, two days before, they made their midday meal.

The Rangers ride towards it, with the intention also to make a short
halt there and snatch a scrap from their haversacks.

When upon its edge, before entering among the trees, they see that which
decides them to stay even less time than intended--the hoof-prints of
half a hundred horses!

Going inside the copse, they observe other signs that speak of an
encampment. Reading these with care, they can tell that it has not long
been broken up. The ashes of the bivouac fires are scarce cold, while
the hoof-marks of the horses show fresh on the desert dust, for the time
converted into mud. Wilder and Cully declare that but one day can have
passed since the lancers parted from the spot; for there is no question
as to who have been bivouacking among the black-jacks.

A day--only a day! It will take full five before the soldiers can cross
the Sierras and enter the valley of the Del Norte. There may still be a
chance of overtaking them. All the likelier, since, cumbered with their
captives, and not knowing they are pursued, they may be proceeding at a
leisurely pace.

Cheered by this hope, and freshly stimulated, the Texans do not even
dismount, but, spurring forth upon the plain, again ride rapidly on,
munching a mouthful as they go.

They are no longer delayed by any doubt as to course. The trail of the
lancer troop is now easily discernible, made since the storm passed
over. Any one of the Rangers could follow it in a fast gallop.

At this pace they all go, only at intervals drawing in to a walk, to
breathe their blown steeds for a fresh spurt.

Even after night has descended they continue on, a clear moonlight
enabling them to lift the trail.

As next morning's sun breaks over the Llano Estacado they descend its
western slope into the valley of the Rio Pecos.

Traversing its bottom, of no great breadth, they reach the crossing of
the old Spanish trail, from Santa Fe to San Antonio de Bejar.

Fording the stream, on its western bank, they discover signs which cause
them to come to a halt, for some time perplexing them. Nothing more
than the tracks of the troo