“Do ye know whar you’re going, boy?” queried the teamster captain, doubtfully. “Yes, sir. I’ve been in here before, and Kit Carson told me,” answered Oliver, hard at work thinking, and peering keenly. At noon they rested by a stream, and let the horses graze, and dozed, themselves, while down upon the wild maze of quiet wooded hills poured the generous sun――his beams hot in the thin atmosphere. After their nooning, again they rode. The country had grown wilder; the hills had become peaks, snow-capped; the water-courses had cut deep gulches and canyons. It was the favorite region of the Jicarilla (Heek-ah-ree-yah, _i.e._, Basket) Apaches; the ancient volcano land of northern New Mexico west of the Rio Grande. Here the Jicarillas had their retreats. Now the pursuit must ride more carefully, for Oliver was not certain but that they might be near the Indians. So they scanned every ridge to catch timely glimpse of Indian scout, and every hollow to catch glimpse of tell-tale smoke. An oddly-shaped little peak was the landmark; and as by way of draw and pass, from valley to valley, they neared it, Oliver’s heart beat faster. Below the peak was that box-canyon or enclosed basin where, according to Kit Carson’s judgment, the stolen stock would be hidden. At last the wearied little cavalcade wound around a wooded shoulder and could scan the spot where lay the outlaw refuge. Up-wafted lazily, as from the basin itself, into the sunset atmosphere above the fringing trees and rocks, a film of hazy blue smoke. Indian camp! However, too late was it, this day, to attack; darkness would interfere. So the pursuit rode nearer, and sent two men forward afoot to spy. They left; and they returned, scratched and grimy, in the dusk, to report that a Jicarilla camp was located in the basin, that the Indians were gorging and making merry around a fire, and that more than fourteen span of mules, evidently stolen, were grazing freely, hobbled not nor tethered, upon the grass of the secluded niche. Having driven their spoil 150 miles into the heart of the Apache mountains, the Indians evidently were expecting no interference. And here, likewise 150 miles from white settlement, the pursuit grimly squatted down to a fireless night and a long wait until dawn. They slept at intervals; even Oliver slept, exultant though he was at having led true, and anxious though he was for further results. The dawn grayed; the men stiffly stirred about, saddling their hunched horses and priming afresh their weapons. “Let the boy show the trail,” bade the teamster leader, gruffly. “He’s been hyar’bouts before, he says.” Oliver was nothing loth; Kit Carson had told him exactly where to strike the one entrance into the basin――the one entrance which also was the one exit. Therefore, carrying the Ike Chamberlain rifle in approved fashion in hollow of left arm, ready, Oliver forced his yellow horse into the advance.