On swept the rurales, a final fire hailing about them, but a volley from their carbines soon silenced the last feeble attempt at defense.
"I guess the rustlers have about given up," exclaimed Jack.
Suddenly, from the old mission gates there swept out a figure on horseback. It was instantly recognized as that of Black Ramon. He was mounted on his magnificent black horse, and waved his hand defiantly at the advancing line. The rurales poured a perfect storm of bullets at him, but the chief of the cattle rustlers seemed to bear a charmed life. Once he reeled in his saddle as if he had been hit, but he instantly recovered himself.
Spurring his superb mount, he sprang forward over the brow of a protecting ridge, and was lost to view. When he next appeared he was silhouetted in striking outline on the summit of another ridge of foothills. For an instant he paused, and they could see him look defiantly back. Then, with a wave of his sombrero, he vanished. It was useless to pursue him. There was not a horse among the ranchers or the Mexicans that could approach the big black.
"There goes a rascal that would look better decorating a telegraph pole with a hemp necktie around his yellow throat, than anywhere else," said one of the Americans, as the desperado vanished.
"And yet," said Mr. Merrill, "I should not have wished to see him shot down in cold blood. If only we had our horses and cattle——"
"We'll have them before long," said Ralph quietly, as, with a loud series of yells, the rurales charged into the mission itself.
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Merrill. The other Americans, watching from the little knoll the attack on the mission, looked at him questioningly.
"We've found them all," announced Ralph calmly, "in the sunken valley——"