"Jest this!" cried Bushnell, explosively; "this yere Greaser galoot w'at yer calls Pedro is nobody but Ferez!"
"Who is Ferez?"
"He's Pacheco's lieutenant!"
Frank uttered a cry of amazement and anger, wheeling quickly on the Mexican, his hand seeking the butt of a revolver.
But the dark-faced rascal seemed ready for such an exposure, for, with a yell of defiance, he dropped behind his horse, and the animal shot like a rocket from the firelight into the shadows which lay thick on the desert.
Bushnell opened up with a brace of revolvers, sending a dozen bullets whistling after the fellow, in less than as many seconds.
At the first shot, Hans Dunnerwust fell off his horse, striking on his back on the sand, where he lay, faintly gurgling:
"Uf you don'd shood der odder vay, I vos a tead man!"
"Don't let him escape with a whole skin!" shouted Frank, as he began to work a revolver, although he was blinded by the flashes from Bushnell's weapon so that he was forced to shoot by guess.
Ferez seemed to bear a charmed life, for he fled straight on into the night, sending back a mocking shout of laughter. From far out on the waste, he cried: