We passed through an interesting country, filled with wind-carven
pillars and minarets, eroded shelves and caverns, and lunched at
noonday beside a dozen boiling sulphur springs. We also passed
Cañoncito, the little village which was the home of José Cordova.

As we came in sight of the tinned spires of the church at Jemez, we
heard a distinct murmur, and halted at once. In a moment the murmur
swelled into an unmistakable Indian war-whoop. It was plainly evident
the Dominicans had arrived before us.

As soon as I heard the war-whoop I told Sergeant Cunningham to bring
up the men as rapidly as possible, sticking to the travelled road,
and, accompanied by the agent and Corporal Frank, I put spurs to my
horse and dashed towards the town.

Our route was through the cultivated land, while that of the soldiers
was on the hard ground along the foot-hills. Ours was in a direct
line, over deep, soft earth, frequently crossed by irrigating ditches,
while theirs, although nearly treble the distance, was over firm soil
without a break. We struck directly for the church spires, which I
knew rose from the central plaza.

Often we plunged down the banks of _acequias_, carrying avalanches of
soil with us into two or three feet of water, to make a difficult
scramble up the crumbling wall of the opposite side; and as we neared
the pueblo, the louder grew the discordant yells of the Dominicans.

As I reached the border of the plantation I found between me and the
road, which here entered the town, a cactus hedge about five feet