“By thunder, he’s fainted,” mutters the orderly, as he bears the limp form from the car.
“Search him,” commands Alvarez, signaling to the conductor to go ahead.
As the train rumbles away the orderly goes through the coat pockets of the prisoner, but without finding any sign of papers, rebel dispatches or otherwise. Then he tears open the unconscious youth’s shirt, and the next instant utters an exclamation of astonishment.
“By heaven! It’s a woman!” he mutters, as he deposits his burden tenderly on the ground and straightens up to acquaint his chief of the surprising bit of intelligence.
The moon swings high above the range when Ashley leaves the hotel and proceeds down the railroad track, the route he naturally supposes Alvarez and his party have taken.
As the newspaper man, revolver in hand, moves slowly and cautiously along, his eyes on the alert for a glimpse of Alvarez’ party, the danger of his situation suddenly occurs to him. If the Spaniards have already stationed themselves at some point along the rail he is likely to stumble upon them at any minute.
At last he sights the party of troopers. Then he remembers that the road is close by, and stealing through the brush, he proceeds softly along the highway until the hum of conversation greets his ear.
He crawls at a safe distance to a position beyond the group, not twenty feet distant from the spot where Alvarez and Barker are seated.
The brush is dense and he has nothing now to do but keep perfectly still. He has seen or heard nothing of El Torredo or his men, but he knows that secreted somewhere in the waste of chaparral around him are stout hearts and strong arms waiting for the cry of “Santiago!” to rouse them to swift action.