Candon climbed one of these kopjes, shaded his eyes and looked. Then he gave a shout.
“Got ’em,” cried Candon, “right ahead. After me, boys!”
He came tumbling down and started at full speed, taking a track that led due east between the hillocks, till, rounding a boulder, away ahead of them, they saw the mule and its companions slowly winding their way in a south-easterly direction—but not a trace of Tommie.
They closed up rapidly, the Mexicans turned at the shout of Hank, then, as if a bomb shell had burst amongst them, they scattered, leaving the mule to its fate and running south, sou’east and east.
“Mule first,” cried Hank.
Through the canvas of the great bulging sack of sea-weed on the mule’s back, he could see the small corpse of Tommie, strangled, maybe, doubled up, done for.
The mule, left to itself, had begun to feed on a patch of grass as tough looking as bow-string hemp. It cocked an eye at the oncomers and continued feeding till they got close up to it.
“Look out!” yelled Hank.
The heels of the brute had missed him by inches.