"You see, we’re on to a trail now," said Apache Kid, as he trudged along. "You never strike a trail just at the entrance into a place like this. Travellers who have passed here at various times, you see, come into the wood at all sorts of angles, where the trees are thin. But after one gets into the wood a bit and the trees get thicker, in feeling about for a passage you find where someone has been before you and you take the same way. A week, or a month, or a year later someone else comes along and he follows you. This trail here, for all that you can see the print of a horse’s hoof here and there on it, may not have been passed over this year by any living soul. There may not have been anyone here since I was here last myself, three years ago—yes, that print there may be the print of my own horse’s hoof, for I remember how the rain drenched that day, charging through the pass here and dripping from the pines and trickling through all the woods." "It is a pass, then?" said I. "Oh, yes," he explained. "It is what is called, in the language of the country, a buck’s trail. That does not mean, as I used to think, an Indian trail. It is the slang word for a priest. You find these bucks’ trails all over the country. They were made by the priests who came up from old Mexico to evangelise and convert the red heathen of the land. I think these old priests must have been regular wander-fever men to do it. Think of it, man, cutting a way through these woods. Aha! See, there’s a blaze on a tree there. You can scarcely make it out, though; it’s been rained upon and snowed upon and blown upon so long, year in, year out. Turn about, now that we are past it, and you see the blaze on this side. Perhaps the old buck made that himself, standing back from the tree and swinging his axe and saying to himself: ’If this leads me nowhere, I shall at least be able to find my way back plain enough.’ Well! It’s near here somewhere that I stopped that time, three years ago. Do you make out the sound of any water trickling?" We stood listening; but there was no sound save that of our breathing, and then suddenly a "tap, tap, tap" broke out loud in the forest, so that it startled me at the moment, though next moment I knew it was the sound of a busy woodpecker. We moved on a little farther, and then Apache Kid cried out in joy: "Aha! Here we are! See the clear bit down there where the trees thin out?" We pushed our way forward to where, through the growing dusk of the woods, there glowed between the boles a soft green, seeming very bright after the dark, rusty green of these motionless trees.