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 between steep wooded hills. They all marched upon it. It evidently was going somewhere, perhaps to a better country, perhaps still to the head of the Red River and the circuit south for the lower regions of New Mexico. At least, the Spanish had some goal in view.

Next, they had come to a large camp, the largest yet, and only a few weeks old. But it had been an Indian camp. There were the circles where lodges—many lodges—had stood, the ashes in the center of each, and sign of fully one thousand horses.

"Utah," declared Baroney, examining a cast-off moccasin.

Stub agreed. Moccasins differed, and these were Utah moccasins, by the cut.

"Sure, then we're not follerin' the Spanish, or even the Comanches," John Sparks groaned, doubled over with rheumatism. The men all were pretty badly crippled by frost and chilblains and rheumatism, and their belts were small around their stomachs. "Weren't ye ever in this country before, boy? The Utahs had ye, once, you say."

Stub did not know.

"No remember. Big country, John. Mebbe here, mebbe somewhere."

The lieutenant and the doctor had asked him the same question; but he was as puzzled as they. He