The Mexican turned his head quickly in the direction Bridge's index finger indicated.
“I see nothing,” said Rozales, after a moment.
“You do now, though,” replied Bridge, and as the Mexican's eyes returned in the direction of his companion he was forced to admit that he did see something—the dismal, hollow eye of a six-shooter looking him straight in the face.
“Senor Bridge!” exclaimed Rozales. “What are you doing? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Bridge, “that if you are at all solicitous of your health you'll climb down off that pony, not forgetting to keep your hands above your head when you reach the ground. Now climb!”
Rozales dismounted.
“Turn your back toward me,” commanded the American, and when the other had obeyed him, Bridge dismounted and removed the man's weapons from his belt. “Now you may go, Rozales,” he said, “and should you ever have an American in your power again remember that I spared your life when I might easily have taken it—when it would have been infinitely safer for me to have done it.”
The Mexican made no reply, but the black scowl that clouded his face boded ill for the next gringo who should be so unfortunate as to fall into his hands. Slowly he wheeled about and started back up the trail in the direction of the Pesita camp.
“I'll be halfway to El Orobo,” thought Bridge, “before he gets a chance to tell Pesita what happened to him,” and then he remounted and rode on down into the valley, leading Rozales' horse behind him.
It would never do, he knew, to turn the animal loose too soon, since he would doubtless make his way back to camp, and in doing so would have to pass Rozales who would catch him. Time was what Bridge wanted—to be well on his way to Orobo before Pesita should learn of his escape.