" I replied. "You cannot find your brother's
trail, nor could you follow it in the night."

"I cannot help thinking, sir, that Henry will send Vicky with a
message, and I fear that she cannot follow us so far. She must be
fearfully hungry and thirsty. I feel as if I ought to go and meet
her."

"You may be right about the message. As Vic was without her collar,
she may not have been killed."

The hours crept slowly on. The uneasy animals never ceased their walk
backward and forward between the water and the wagons, uttering their
discontent. Towards midnight, overcome by the fatigues of the day, I
fell into a doze, and did not wake until called at three.

A breakfast similar to our supper was served, and we were ready for
the road. The mules were harnessed while vigorously braying their
protests against such ill usage, and, once under way, slowly drew the
wagons to the summit of the divide between the Lithodendron and the
Little Colorado, a distance of twelve miles.

I did not see Frank while overlooking the drawing out of the train,
but gave myself no anxiety on his account, thinking he had
accompanied the advance. We had proceeded about a mile when a corporal
of the guard ran after me, and reported that the Arnolds were not
hitching up. Halting the train, I rode back and found Brenda sitting
by the road-side in tears.

"What is the matter, Miss Arnold?" I asked.

"Oh, it is something this time," she sobbed, "that even you cannot
remedy."

"Then you think I can generally remedy things? Thank you."

"You have always helped us, but I do not see how you can now."

"What is the trouble, please?"

"Our poor oxen have worn their hoofs through to the quick. They were
obliged to travel very fast yesterday, and over a flinty road, and
their hoofs are worn and bleeding. Uncle says we must remain behind."

"Perhaps things are not as bad as you think," I said. "Let us go back
and see."

Rising dejectedly, and by no means inspired by hope, Brenda led the
way to the Arnold wagons, where I found the father and mother on their
knees beside an ox, engaged in binding rawhide "boots" to the
animal's feet. These boots were squares cut from a fresh hide procured
from the last ox slaughtered by the soldier-butcher. The foot of the
ox being set in the centre, the square was gathered about the ankle
and fastened with a thong of buck-skin.

"Are all of your cattle in this condition, Mr. Arnold?" I asked.

"Only one other's '