e had come under our own observation.
The wounded brave taken in the skirmish at the mound was a full-blooded
Mexican--had been carried off by the Comanches, some years before, from
the settlements on the Lower Rio Grande. In consideration of this, we
gave him his liberty--under the impression that he would gladly avail
himself of the opportunity to return to his kindred.

He proved wanting in gratitude as in natural affection. The same night
on which he was set free, he took the route back to the prairies,
mounted upon one of the best horses of our troop, which he had stolen
from its unfortunate owner!

Such are the "Cosas de Mexico"--a few of the traits of frontier-life on
the Rio Bravo del Norte.

But what of the war-trail? That is not yet explained.

Know, then, that from the country of the Indians to that of the Mexicans
extend many great paths, running for hundreds of miles from point to
point. They follow the courses of streams, or cross vast desert plains,
where water is found only at long intervals of distance. They are
marked by the tracks of mules, horses, and captives. Here and there,
they are whitened by bones--the bones of men, of women, of animals, that
have perished by the way. Strange paths are these! What are they, and
who have made them? Who travel by these roads that lead through the
wild and homeless desert?

Indians: they are the paths of the Comanche and Caygua--the roads made
by their warriors during the "Mexican moon."

It was upon one of these that the trapper was gazing when he gave out
the emphatic utterance--

"War-trail, by the Eturnal!"

CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

ON THE WAR-TRAIL.

Scarcely staying to quench my thirst, I led my horse across the stream,
and commenced scrutinising the trail upon the opposite bank. The
faithful trackers were by my side--no fear of them lagging behind.

I had won the hearts of both these men; and that they would have risked
life to serve me, I could no longer doubt, since over and over again
they _had_ risked it. For Garey strong, courageous, handsome in the
true sense, and noble-hearted, I felt real friendship, which the young
trapper reciprocated. For his older comrade, the feeling. I had was
like himself--indefinable, indescribable. It was strongly tinctured
with admiration, but admiration of the intellectual rather than the
moral or personal qualities of the man.

Instead of intellectual, I should rather say instinctive--for hi