Notwithstanding our increased strength, we travelled with as much caution as ever: for the danger had augmented in proportion. We made most way under the friendly shadow of night--sometimes by the light of the moon--and only by day, when we could discover no Indian sign in our neighbourhood. Only two of us could ride at a time--the other two taking it afoot; but in this way a journey can be made almost as well, as when each has a horse to himself. Our pack-animals gave us little trouble: as the continued travel had long since trained them to follow in file, and without requiring to be led. We refrained from making fires, where the ground was unfavourable. Only when we could choose our camp in the midst of a timbered thicket, or down in the secluded depth of some rocky ravine, did we risk kindling fires; and them we extinguished as soon as they had served the purposes of our simple _cuisine_. These precautions, drawn from experience, were absolutely necessary in a passage across the prairies--at least by a party so small as ours. Perhaps had we continued them, we might have escaped a misfortune that soon after befell us; and the tale of which is now to be told. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. THE ABANDONED BOUQUET. Having passed Bent's Fort--of wide celebrity in trapper lore--whilom the scene of many a wild revel of the "mountain-men," but now abandoned and in ruins--we arrived at the confluence of the Huerfano. As we expected, the trace turned up the valley of this latter stream--thus deciding the route taken by the caravan. We rode on through a forest of grand cotton-woods and willows; and at about seven miles distant from the mouth of the Huerfano river, reached a point, where the caravan had crossed over to its left bank. On the other side, we could see the ground of their encampment of the night before. We could tell it by the fresh traces of animals and waggons-- debris of the morning's repast--and half-burnt faggots of the tires that had cooked it, still sending up their clouds of oozing smoke. The stream at this point was fordable; and crossing over, we stood upon the deserted camp-ground. With singular emotions, I walked amid the smouldering fires--forming conjectures as to which of them might have been graced by that fair presence. Where had she passed the night, and what had occupied her thoughts? Were those gentle words still lingering in her memory? Were they upon her lips? It was pleasant for me to repeat them. I did not need to draw the writing forth. Long since were the lines fixed in my remembrance--oft through my heart had vibrated the burden of that sweet song: "I think of thee--I think of thee!"