This time the chestnut widened the circle, cutting back into the steep hill country, turning up crooked washes, crossing ridges, and doubling back occasionally. The Navajos stayed on the trail, keeping as close to the band as they could, cutting across when they sighted the mares doubling on their course. And now they were hanging close on the heels of the wild ones. Twice the chestnut stallion whirled and faced the hunters as though about to challenge them to a fight. The braves slid their hands down to where their guns hung about their naked waists. They did not wish to kill the big stallion unless he charged their ponies, nor did they care to try taming him. They wanted the black mare and the colts. The chestnut did not charge his tormentors. Fear of man and man’s far-killing gun sent him back to biting and shoving the mares into faster flight. He could not use the tactics which always succeeded against the wolf or the bear. Topping another ridge, he headed his band into a deep canyon. He knew they were almost winded from running uphill. The steep slope would help them to recover. One of the Navajos shouted: “He is doubling back! Head him!” The Indians sent their ponies charging recklessly down the dangerous slope, leaping over boulders and water-gutted ditches. But the band would not be headed. Going downhill had eased them and given them new life. They plunged along with sides heaving and nostrils flaring. Lady Ebony led them, keeping her pace down to their speed. One of the hunters headed his pony up out of the canyon. He halted on a jutting rock and sat looking down over the desert. His black eyes watched the fine spirals of yellow dust rising from the canyon and he nodded his head. The scattered groups of hunters would be able to locate the new direction the band had taken. The sharp eyes of three hunters hiding in a juniper grove on the rim of the canyon saw the spirals of dust rising from the dry watercourse above. They slipped across and waited. The chestnut began to breathe easier. Once again the band had outdistanced their pursuers and no raiders could be seen. But he was nervous and determined to keep the mares moving until they were deep in the rough, canyon-slotted country to the south. The weary horses slowed their pace to a trot. They were suffering for water and their hard muscles were crying for rest. They were used to sudden, wild charges when they would race at top speed for a while, but they were not used to a steady grind, hour after hour.