ged, El Sol, the doctor, Seguin, and myself, in an animated
conversation. The subject was not horses, nor guns, nor scalps, nor
war, nor blood, nor aught connected with the horrid calling of that
camp. We were discussing a point in the pacific science of botany: the
relationship of the different forms of the cactus family.

I had studied the science, and I felt that my knowledge of it was
inferior to that of any of my three companions. I was struck with it
then, and more when I reflected on it afterwards; the fact of such a
conversation, the time, the place, and the men who carried it on.

For nearly two hours we sat smoking and talking on like subjects.

While we were thus engaged I observed upon the canvas the shadow of a
man. Looking forth, as my position enabled me without rising, I
recognised in the light that streamed out of the tent a hunting-shirt,
with a worked pipe-holder hanging over the breast.

La Luna sat near her brother, sewing "parfleche" soles upon a pair of
moccasins. I noticed that she had an abstracted air, and at short
intervals glanced out from the opening of the tent. While we were
engrossed with our discussion she rose silently, though not with any
appearance of stealth, and went out.

After a while she returned. I could read the love-light in her eye as
she resumed her occupation.

El Sol and his sister at length left us, and shortly after Seguin, the
doctor, and I rolled ourselves in our serapes, and lay down to sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE WAR-TRAIL.

The band was mounted by the earliest dawn, and as the notes of the bugle
died away our horses plashed through the river, crossing to the other
side. We soon debouched from the timber bottom, coming out upon sandy
plains that stretched westward to the Mibres Mountains. We rode over
these plains in a southerly direction, climbing long ridges of sand that
traversed them from east to west. The drift lay in deep furrows, and
our horses sank above the fetlocks as we journeyed. We were crossing
the western section of the Jornada.

We travelled in Indian file. Habit has formed this disposition among
Indians and hunters on the march. The tangled paths of the forest, and
the narrow defiles of the mountains admit of no other. Even when
passing a plain, our cavalcade was strung out for a quarter of a mile.
The atajo followed in charge of the arrieros.

For the first day of our march we kept on without nooning. There was