The cibolero sat silent, and in deep thought. He was busied with plans and conjectures--conjectures as to what tribe of Indians the marauders could belong to. Apaches or Comanches they were not. He had met parties of both on his return. They treated him in a friendly manner, and they said nothing of hostilities against the people of San Ildefonso. Besides, no bands of these would have been in such small force as the late robbers evidently were. Carlos wished it had been they. He knew that in such a case, when it was known that the captive was _his_ sister, she would be restored to him. But no; they had nothing to do with it. Who then?--the Yutas? Such was the belief among the people of the valley, as he had been told by Don Juan. If so, there was still a hope--Carlos had traded with a branch of this powerful and warlike tribe. He was also on friendly terms with some of its chiefs, though these were now at war with the more northern settlements. But the Jicarillas still returned to his mind. These were Indians of a cowardly, brutal disposition, and his mortal foes. They would have scalped him on sight. If his sister was _their_ captive, her lot was hard indeed; and the very thought of such a fate caused the cibolero to start up with a shudder, and clench his hands in a convulsive effort of passion. It was near morning. The peons were astir and armed. The horses and mules were saddled in the patio, and Don Juan had announced that all were ready. Carlos stood by the bedside of his mother to take leave. She beckoned him near. She was still weak, for blood had flown freely from her, and her voice was low and feeble. "My son," said she, as Carlos bent over her, "know you what Indians you are going to pursue?" "No, mother," replied Carlos, "but I fear they are our enemies the Jicarillas." "Have the Jicarillas _beards on their faces and jewels on their fingers_?" "No mother; why do you ask such a question?--you know they have no beards! My poor mother!" added he, turning to Don Juan; "this terrible stroke has taken her senses!" "Follow the trail, then!" she continued, without noticing the last remark uttered by Carlos in a whisper; "follow the trail--perhaps it will guide thee to--" and she whispered the rest into his ear. "What, mother?" said he, starting, as if at some strange information. "Dost thou think so?" "I have some suspicion--only _suspicion_--but follow the trail--it will guide thee--follow it, and be satisfied!" "Do not doubt me, mother; I shall be satisfied of _that_." "One promise before you go. Be not rash--be prudent." "Fear not, mother! I will." "If it be so--" "If it be so, mother, you'll soon see me back. God bless you!--My blood's on fire--I cannot stay!--God bless you, mother!--Farewell!" Next minute the train of mounted men, with Don Juan and Carlos at its head, passed out of the great gate, and took the road that led out from the valley. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.