"Madre de Dios!" breathed Gracia, clutching at her saddle; and then she nodded her head weakly.
"You better get down for a minute," suggested Hooker, helping her quickly to the ground. "Here, drink some water—you're kinder faint. I'll be right back—jest want to say good-by."
He strode over to where Amigo had posted himself behind a rock and laid a hand on his arm.
"Adios, Amigo!" he said, but the Yaqui only glanced at him strangely.
"Anything in my camp, you are welcome to it," added Hooker, but Amigo did not respond. His black eyes, far-seeing as a hawk's, were fixed intently before him, where Del Rey came galloping in the lead.
"You go now!" he said, speaking with an effort, and Hooker understood. There was no love, no hate, left in that mighty carcass—he was all warrior, all Yaqui, and he wanted Del Rey to himself.
"We'll be going," Hooker said to Gracia, returning swiftly, and his subdued tones made her start. She felt, as one feels at a funeral, the hovering wings of death, yet she vaulted into her saddle and left her thoughts unsaid.
They rode on down the valley, spurring yet holding back, and then with a roar that made them jump the heavy Mauser spoke out—one shot! And no more. There was a hush, a long wait, and Amigo rose slowly from behind his rock.
With a roar that made them jump the heavy Mauser spoke out