A burst of speed followed his exclamation, for reins had been loosened, rowels dug into the horses feverishly, and whips let fall. The pursued were not a quarter of a mile distant and the pursuers were rapidly nearing them, for the shadows grew in size. Indeed, they grew so rapidly that the general looked with care, and then cried sharply, “Halt!” catching Mr. Dartmoor’s horse by the bridle, throwing both the front animals almost on their haunches and bringing those behind to a stand.
“What do you mean?” exclaimed the iron merchant, angrily. He had drawn his revolver.
“You must not fire. Remember the girls are with them.”
Mr. Dartmoor replaced the weapon in his pocket. “But why do we stop?” he asked.
“They have stopped. And see, one of the band is coming to meet us. They want to parley. Let me speak with him, will you?”
“Yes, yes, and pardon me, general.”
The little officer rode ahead a few paces, and Señor Cisneros moved up to Mr. Dartmoor’s side, then all pressed closer.
A man clad in a ragged uniform came riding slowly from the group beyond.
“Well, what is it, fellow?” said the officer.
“General Matajente!” The tone showed the surprise felt by the bandit, but noticing the small numbers behind the intrepid warrior, he regained courage and said insolently:—