Part of his
flock served for the supper of that band he would have betrayed.

Up to the point where the hatero had been encountered, the White Chief
and his followers had travelled along a well-known path--the trail of
the traders. Beyond this, the leader swerved from the track; and
without a word headed obliquely over the plain. The extended line
followed silently after--as the body of a snake moves after its head.

Another hour, and they had arrived at the _ceja_ of the Great Plain--at
a point well-known to their chief. It was at the head of that ravine
where he had so oft found shelter from his foes. The moon, though
shining with splendid brilliance, was low in the sky, and her light did
not penetrate the vast chasm. It lay buried in dark shade. The descent
was a difficult one, though not to such men, and with such a guide.

Muttering some words to his immediate follower, the White Chief headed
his horse into the cleft, and the next moment disappeared under the
shadow of the rocks.

The warrior that followed, passing the word behind him, rode after, and
likewise disappeared in the darkness; then another, and another, until
five hundred mounted men were engulfed in that fearful-looking abysm.
Not one remained upon the upper plain.

For a while there struck upon the ear a continued pattering sound--the
sound of a thousand hoofs as they fell upon rocks and loose shingle.
But this noise gradually died away, and all was silence. Neither horses
nor men gave any token of their presence in the ravine. The only sounds
that fell upon the ears were the voices of nature's wild creatures whose
haunts had been invaded. They were the wail of the goatsucker, the bay
of the barking wolf, and the maniac scream of the eagle.

Another day passes--another moon has arisen--and the gigantic serpent,
that had all day lain coiled in the ravine, is seen gliding silently out
at its bottom, and stretching its long vertebrate form across the plain
of the Pecos.

The stream is reached and crossed; amidst plashing spray, horse follows
horse over the shallow ford, and then the glittering line glides on.

Having passed the river lowlands, it ascends the high plains that
overlook the valley of San Ildefonso.

Here a halt is made--scouts are sent forward--and once more the line
moves on.

Its head reaches the cliff of La Nina just as the moon has sunk behind
the snowy summit of the Sierra Blanca. For the last hour the leader has