A hollow voice is heard; it is Pedro’s; he speaks almost in a whisper.
“Senors—sirs—let us go outside.”
He stalks away. They follow in utter silence; even the guide and the ranger are under a strange influence. They emerge into the open air.
Pedro, the guide and Cimarron Jack stood on the summit of the hill and peered round in the darkness. The twilight had given place to-night, yet they could see some distance, the atmosphere was so clear. The horses stood as if statues, motionless; the mustang was out on the plain, but she was no longer browsing; on the contrary, she at intervals tossed her head and stamped—she was uneasy.
The guide and the ranger went slowly down the hill, with subdued faces, into the throng below. Pedro remained above with his torch.
The mustang now trotted toward him, snorting and tossing her mane; he watched her, flaring the torch for a better view.
Suddenly she screamed shrilly and galloped rapidly away. At the same instant Pedro saw a form approaching. He waved the torch.
The form drew near, and he perceived it was that of a colossal horseman. He slightly stooped and held his torch aloft. He drew nearer, and strangely his horse’s feet gave out no sound. The men below were on the opposite side of the hill.
Suddenly the horseman loomed up as if by magic, and Pedro, with a wild cry, started to his feet. The horseman wheeled and was riding away at a gallop into the darkness—in thirty seconds he was invisible. Pedro for a moment stood stupefied, and no wonder, for in that colossal form, on the powerful black horse, under the conical hat with a black plume, rode the Trailer.
For a moment only he stood semi-paralyzed, then, with a wild cry, and waving his torch, he sprung down the hill. Into the aperture he went, and with trembling, eager hands tore away the coverings of his treasure.