rent orders, rode
rapidly along the trail.

CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN.

THE WRITING ON THE MAGUEY.

The skill of the trackers was no longer called in need; the war-trail
was as easily followed as a toll-road: a blind man could have guided
himself along such a well-trodden highway.

Our rate of speed was now ruled by the capacity of our horses. Alas!
their power was nearly at an end. They had been two days and a night
under the saddle, with but a few hours to refresh themselves by food or
rest: they could not hold out much longer.

One by one they began to lag, until the greater number of them followed
with tottering step hundreds of yards in the rear.

It was in vain to contend against nature. The men were still willing,
though they too were wearied to death; but their horses were quite done
up--even whip and spur could force them no farther. Only my own
matchless steed could have continued the journey. Alone I might have
advanced, but that would have been madness. What could I have
accomplished alone?

Night was fast coming down: it was already twilight. I saw by the
clouded sky we should have no moon. We might follow the trail with our
waxen torches--not yet burnt out--but that would no longer be safe. For
myself, I was reckless enough to have risked life in any way, but the
lives of my comrades were not mine. I could not give them--I should not
wastefully fling them away.

Reluctantly I glided from my saddle, gave my steed to the grass, and sat
down upon the earth.

My followers coming up, said not a word, but picketing their horses,
seated themselves around me. One by one they stretched themselves along
the sward, and in ten minutes all were asleep.

I alone could not sleep; the fever of unrest was upon me; the demon of
thought would not let me close my eyes. Though my orbs ached with the
long protracted vigil, I thought that "not all the drowsy syrups of the
world" could have given me repose at that moment. I felt as one who
suffers under delirium, produced by the intoxicating cup, the fearful
_mania-a-potu_. I could neither sleep nor rest.

I could not even remain seated. I rose to my feet and wandered around,
without heed of where I was going; I strode over the recumbent forms of
my sleeping companions; I went among the horses; I paced backwards and
forwards along the banks of the stream.

There _was_ a stream--a small arroyo or rivulet. It was this that had
caused me to halt in th