“Cavarho,” said one of the horsemen, using the name of the supposed scout, “why do you seek the white men by the side of the stream?”
“Was it not from this side that they slew one of our bravest men?” asked Mendez in turn.
“True, but not from that spot.”
“It is further up the bank and I am making my way there.”
“But in the strong light of the moon they will see you, Cavarho.”
“No sooner than they will see you on your horses.”
“We shall watch for them.”
“And I will do the same.”
“Cavarho is our best scout,” was the complimentary remark of the horseman who had done the talking for himself and companion.
And as if nothing more remained to be said, the two wheeled their ponies and rode off, taking a course that led away from the stream, as if in respect to the warning their supposed friend had given.