to it, I rode
rapidly but silently forward.

When fairly concealed under its shadowy gloom, I again halted and
listened. I heard the hoof-strokes of horses and the voices of men. I
recognised the deep guttural of the Arapahoes. A troop was riding past,
going back towards the valley. They were those who had pursued me.
Were these _all_ of my pursuers. There appeared to be only a small
party--ten or a dozen horsemen. Others might have gone up the river,
who had not yet returned. It was this doubt that caused me to hesitate;
otherwise I should have ridden back into the canon, and kept on up the
stream. But by doing so I might place myself between two parties of my
pursuers, with no chance of retreating in either direction. Moreover,
pickets might have been stationed along the path. To fall upon one of
these would be fatal. Why not follow the lateral ravine? I might ride
up that for a distance, and then leaving it, cross over to the caravan
trace--above any point to which the pursuit might have been carried?

This plan appeared feasible; and, without delay, I adopted it. I rode
on up the gorge, which very much resembled that I had left--only that
there was no water in it. It had not been always so: for my path here
and there ran over a channel of rocks, which indicated the bed of a
stream, now dry. I followed the ravine for a mile or more; and then
looked for a path that would take me across to the caravan trail. I
looked in vain. Stupendous cliffs rose on each side. I could not scale
them. I had no choice but to keep on up the ravine; but that would be
going at right angles to my proper course!

There was no alternative but to halt and wait for daylight. Indeed, I
was too faint to ride further. Slight exertion fatigued me; and, no
longer in dread of immediate danger I deemed it more prudent to stop,
and, if possible, gain strength by rest. I dismounted, gave my horse to
the grass; and, having wrapped myself in the warm robe, soon entered
upon the enjoyment of sleep--sweeter and more natural than the
involuntary slumber in which I had been lately indulging.

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

THE TRACK OF THE MOCASSIN.

The blue dawn of morning was glinting among the rocks when I awoke. On
the crest of the cliff was a streak of amber-coloured light, that
betokened the rising of the sun and warned me that it was time to be
stirring. I had no toilet to make--no breakfast to eat: nothing to do
but mount m