Bernritter, without speaking further, rode on up the gully. The Apache, whisking up the gully-bank like an antelope, vanished over the rim. Little Cayuse returned to his waiting pinto, kicked the pony with his heels, and rode on after Bernritter. When he caught the tinkling sound of the hoofs ahead, he slowed his pace with a grunt of satisfaction. Then, from the beaded medicine-pouch that swung from his belt, he took some yellow pigment, dabbed one of his fingers into it, and ran a wavering line up and down either side of his face. This was Cayuse’s war-paint. He put it on, now that he knew he was to take the war-path against foes of his own color. White men like Bernritter and Jacobs were not worth the trouble of dipping into his medicine-bag. Besides, Cayuse’s grievance against them was not yet well defined. Pa-e-has-ka had set him on Bernritter’s trail, but that was all. Recent developments had given a fresh twist to the course of events. Who was Bascomb? And why was the Apache to round up more warriors? Little Cayuse did not like the prospect. As he followed along after Bernritter, he became suddenly aware that the hoofs in the lead were being drowned out by a steadily increasing roar. The mill-stamps! Ah! At last they were coming close to the Three-ply Mine. The gully the two were following suddenly opened out into a wide valley. At the entrance to the valley Cayuse drew rein; then, dismounting, he sat down on a boulder and watched Bernritter ride down into the camp and lose himself among the twinkling lights in mill, bunk-house, and chuck-shanty. For a long time the boy sat there, watching the trailing plume of smoke from the mill, and listening to the clamor of the stamps. Suddenly he was startled. Another horseman galloped past him. Cayuse and his pinto were a little to one side of the trail, and somewhat in the shadow. Fortunately they had not been seen. The man was Jacobs. In spite of the darkness, the boy instinctively recognized the galloping horseman. If the man was Jacobs, then Nomad must be somewhere near. Eagerly the Piute waited, straining his eyes back along the gully. But no Nomad appeared. Had Wolf-killer lost the trail? It was not like him to do that, for Wolf-killer could follow a trail like an Indian. Mounting his pinto, Little Cayuse retraced his course through the gully. When he had reached a place where the drumming of the stamps sounded low in his ears, the echoes were taken up by more hoof-beats. Cayuse drew aside, and McGowan, owner of the mine, swung past. The boy had thought, at first, that it might be Nomad and only his native caution had kept him from giving a shout from the trail-side. A moment later he had recognized McGowan as instinctively as he had recognized Jacobs. He recalled that McGowan had told Jacobs to return to the mine with Bernritter, and both to go at once. And here Jacobs had preceded his employer into the camp by only a few minutes!