“You are the chief of these Apaches, Little Cayuse,” he stated. “And a chief must be brave, if his followers are to be brave. Tell your Apaches to go on and follow the trail they will find out there. You can see some of it here.” He pointed to the gigantic footprints. “Out there is the trail of an Indian horse, joining this one. Are you ready to obey orders, Cayuse, or shall I go on and leave you and the Apaches here?” His tone was stern, for the first time. Chappo, Yuppah, and Pedro looked at each other, a shrinking expression in their black eyes; but Little Cayuse, thus appealed to, straightened his muscular shoulders and lifted his head. “Ai, Pa-e-has-ka,” he said, “Little Cayuse go on.” He strode forth into the trail left by the big-footed man. For a moment or two the three Apaches hung back, talking among themselves; then Chappo followed Little Cayuse, and the others, with shrugs of their naked shoulders and apprehensive glances at the mountains, went along behind him, each stepping in the tracks of the one before, Indian fashion. “We’re ready, Nomad,” said Buffalo Bill, swinging to the big saddle on the back of Bear Paw. Nick Nomad scorned to show the white feather where an Indian led the way. Without even a grunt he mounted Hide-rack, and the trailing of the big tracks and the hoofprints of the Indian pony was begun. Yet though they went on, the Indians were silent and apprehensive. The double trail led to and into the notch in the range; then on through the notch, with the mountains on each side growing higher and wilder. But nothing of a startling character was seen or heard. The notch lay in deep silence. For a whole day the party went on, without trouble. The next day began much the same. And they entered another mountain notch, like the first. In places the way was so stony, being but naked rock, that even the Apaches could see no marks of hoof or footprint; but as it was so manifestly impossible for those they were following to have left this notch, the party continued on, reasonably sure that when the soil was of a friendly character they would find again the tracks they had so long followed. And so it came about, as they descended from the notch into a scarred basin, which lay like a burned cup in a niche of the desolate mountains, that the trail was picked up again—the giant footsteps, supposed to be those of a man, and the hoofprints of the Indian pony. During that long ride of a day and more the three white men talked at intervals of the mysterious disappearance from their midst of Toltec Tom, and of what it meant; how he had sneaked out of the camp, hiding his footsteps by using a blanket. One thing gave them food for thought—it was not one of their blankets he had used; therefore, some one had come to him, bringing him the blanket with which he had hid his tracks.