“It does seem so strange,” said Perry, as they rode back; “they don’t pursue us, but let us ride quietly on. Are they satisfied with the mischief they have done?”
Cyril made no answer, for he was watching the colonel, where he rode by himself, grave and stern, impressed as he was by the feeling that all his efforts would be brought to nought, if he could not devise some means of reaching San Geronimo. At that moment it looked hopeless, and as if he would be thwarted at every step, for though the enemy were invisible, he had had bitter experience of the fact that their knowledge of the mountain paths placed them at a tremendous advantage, and he felt that in all probability they were even then where they could watch every movement, and had perhaps got well ahead, ready to stop them by another attack upon the mules.
It was past mid-day now, and the hope of getting well onward toward safety was completely crushed; the sun was now shining fiercely down into the gorge, heating the rocks so, that the reflection was almost worse than the scorching rays from above. The mules were panting and thirsty, and the exertions of the day, coming upon such a broken night, were telling terribly upon all, so that reluctantly, and as their only resource, the colonel allowed the old leading mule to make straight for the stream which came gurgling out of the cave they had left that morning. Here, to the surprise of all, the intelligent beast, instead of stooping to drink at once, stepped carefully among the stones right into the cool shade within, the rest following, and five minutes later Perry and Cyril were seated inside upon one of the packs.
“And all that day’s work thrown away,” said Cyril sadly.
“And two mules dead,” whispered Perry, so that his father should not hear.
“But we saved their loads,” replied Cyril.
“What for?” said Perry, in the same low voice. “It’s of no use: we shall never get away alive.”