The Canadian and his companions came out.
“Horsemen, did you say?”
“Yes, senor—white horsemen.”
“Ah, I see—toward the east, against the sun. Coming this way too, are they not?”
“Exactly, senor.”
“How do you know they are white horsemen?—there are many of them.”
“Because they ride together. Indians scatter loosely or ride by twos. These are coming together and are leading horses.”
“Every hair on my sorrel-top but you’ve got sharp eyes!” admiringly spoke the cook.
“Experience, senor—experience. Any Mexican boy could tell you the color of those coming horsemen. But look over the plain; see the brave Apaches scamper toward the south-west, whipping their tardy mustangs. They are gone, and we need fear them no more—they will not come back for the present. We will meet our friends—for it is they.”
Of course Pedro was right—he always was; and when the returning and elated party drew up before the hillock, the savages had disappeared.