“Ah, Senor Bridge,” said a pleasant voice in his ear; “where to?”
Bridge turned quickly to look into the smiling, evil face of Rozales.
“Oh,” he replied, “I'm going out to see if I can't find some shooting. It's awfully dull sitting around here doing nothing.”
“Si, senor,” agreed Rozales; “I, too, find it so. Let us go together—I know where the shooting is best.”
“I don't doubt it,” thought Bridge; “probably in the back;” but aloud he said: “Certainly, that will be fine,” for he guessed that Rozales had been set to watch his movements and prevent his escape, and, perchance, to be the sole witness of some unhappy event which should carry Senor Bridge to the arms of his fathers.
Rozales called a soldier to saddle and bridle their horses and shortly after the two were riding abreast down the trail out of the hills. Where it was necessary that they ride in single file Bridge was careful to see that Rozales rode ahead, and the Mexican graciously permitted the American to fall behind.
If he was inspired by any other motive than simple espionage he was evidently content to bide his time until chance gave him the opening he desired, and it was equally evident that he felt as safe in front of the American as behind him.
At a point where a ravine down which they had ridden debauched upon a mesa Rozales suggested that they ride to the north, which was not at all the direction in which Bridge intended going. The American demurred.
“But there is no shooting down in the valley,” urged Rozales.
“I think there will be,” was Bridge's enigmatical reply, and then, with a sudden exclamation of surprise he pointed over Rozales' shoulder. “What's that?” he cried in a voice tense with excitement.