But he kept his own counsel and did not further alarm and annoy his companion by relating the incident.
The supper was plain—the remnants of a venison dinner and some dried meat which Pedro carried in his haversack. The torch threw a feeble, flickering light over the gloomy apartment; an insect droned a funeral dirge close by in some cranny; the horse close by stamped and chewed his grain, and the sound of the mustang’s hoofs outside were dull and heavy; night was drawing on.
“Hist, senorita!” Pedro suddenly whispered, with uplifted hand. “Surely I heard a voice.”
They listened; all was quiet.
They were about resuming their meal when the mustang outside snorted and galloped away; something had alarmed her.
“Something is at hand,” said Pedro. “Stay here, senorita, while I peep out. Do not be alarmed—I will not leave you.”
“Oh, I pray it is my father—pray God it is,” she replied, with a lightened heart.
“Perhaps it is—I hope so, senorita. But I must go—I am sure I hear the voice again.”
Though inwardly quaking, Pedro’s exterior was cool, impassible—his features betrayed no fear. Though never doubting that if he looked out he should again see the fearful apparition, he picked up his gun and squeezing through the interior passage, stalked to the door and peeped out.
“Hello! thar’s her mustang,” he heard a strange voice say, and a moment later several men rode round the hill. He was relieved at finding they were flesh and blood, and not his ghastly enemy, and using his eyes sharply, scanned them.