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along the eastern slopes of the Oscuros—a black wilderness of jagged iron rocks sentinelled by weird cactus shapes—they circled and quartered like foxhounds questing on a cold trail. They whipped the wild ravines of Chupadero Mesa. They searched among the ruins of the Gran Quivera. Turning south, they passed through the Three Rivers country, traversed the Jornado del Muerto, explored the cañons and valleys of the Organ Mountains, and came at the end of a bootless hunt into Mesilla. Not a clue had they found, not a word had they heard of the Kid's whereabouts. So, weary, discouraged, and bedraggled, they trooped back to Lincoln.

The other posses reported equally unsuccessful results. But Garrett was not yet ready to give up. He had one more card to play. From the Mescalero reservation he summoned two Apache trailers, lithe, half-naked, moccasined fellows, famous among their people for skill in tracking game and men through trackless wastes. Given the direction of the Kid's flight, these human sleuth-hounds set out from Lincoln on foot. Along the sides of the road they worked slowly, patiently, their keen eyes scrutinizing every inch of ground, until they came to the trail that branched off to Baca Cañon. Here where the Kid had turned they turned also. Some sign that no white man could have detected—a stone streaked by the swift impact of a horseshoe, a weed broken at a certain height from the ground and at a certain angle, a hoofprint of more than usual depth—guided these savage trackers in the right direction. They broke into a dog-trot, crossed the Bonito, plunged into Baca Cañon. To Padilla's ranch they came at length, led by what microscopic trail marks no man might know except themselves. Padilla, good friend of the Kid that he was, kept a silent tongue