In the meantime, the captured Mexican, whose wound, though severe, still allowed him to ride, was spurring on his way across the Hachetas to Black Ramon's headquarters in the old Mission. It has been said that the greatest blackguards have sometimes the most faithful followers, and this seemed to be the case with the Mexican miscreant, for his underling, despite the pain of his wound and his weakened condition, did not hesitate an instant over taking a ride which might have caused even a slightly wounded man to pause and reflect on the undertaking.
Thus it had come about, that, at the same time that Jack Merrill and Coyote Pete, escorted by the eccentric prospector, were setting out to get in communication with civilization, Black Ramon and six of his most trusted followers had started for the land company's dam, with what a heinous purpose in view we shall presently see. The Mexican was in the blackest of moods. He had hardly returned from his vain chase after Jack Merrill and the cow-puncher before word had been brought to him that his other prisoners had escaped.
The Mexican was almost beside himself with rage as he heard this, and, in addition, news had been brought to him that Mr. Merrill had requisitioned that a band of soldiers be sent in search of him. Armed also with the wounded man's story of the pursuit of the ranchers by means of the secret trail, Ramon was indeed almost desperate when he set out with the intention of accomplishing the deed he had in mind. He felt he would render his name hateful to Americans and glorious to border Mexicans forever, and was all the more anxious to achieve it for that reason.
His astonishment, therefore, when he heard Coyote Pete's hail and emerged from the dam-tender's hut to find his escaped prisoners walking right into his net again, was only equalled by his delight. As his followers bound each of the three hand and foot, after roughly dragging them from their ponies, Black Ramon rubbed his hands gleefully.
"You are going to see a sight before long that you will remember all your days," he said, as the Americans, scornfully disdaining to utter a word, were carried into the hut.
"What, you do not answer?"
"No, you yellow dog," grunted Jim Hicks disdainfully, "I'm mighty particular who I talk to."
Beside himself with fury at the American's calm contempt, the Mexican opened his palm and struck the bound and helpless miner a blow across the face. Jim Hicks' ruddy, bronzed countenance went white as dead ashes.
"You'll be sorry for that, you greaser, some day," he said in a quiet, controlled tone, which to those who knew him signified trouble.
"Some day, yes!" laughed Ramon; "but I shall be far away some day, amigo, but before I go I am going to give you Americanos a lesson you will never forget. The father of this boy here, and twelve other rancheros, are riding through the American foothills now to your rescue. But they will never reach the mountains. Why?—Ah, you will soon see."