After hastily eating a slice of venison cooked on the ashes, and drinking a draught of pulque—from which, after the custom of his nation, the only one which does not drink strong liquors, the Comanche declined to take a share—the four men separated; Ruperto, Flying Eagle, and Eglantine going into the prairie in a western direction; while Brighteye and Marksman, bending slightly to the left, proceeded in an easterly course, in order to reach the ford of the Rubio, where the latter was expected.
"Hum!" Brighteye observed, as he threw his rifle on to his left arm, and starting with that elastic step peculiar to the wood rangers; "we have some tough work cut out for us."
"Who knows, my friend?" Marksman answered, anxiously. "At any rate, we must discover the truth."
"That is my opinion, too."
"There is one thing I want to know, above all."
"What is it?"
"What Don Miguel's carefully-closed palanquin contains."
"Why, hang it! a woman, of course."
"Who told you so?"
"Nobody; but I presume so."