JACK’S ADVENTURE.
A few stealthy footsteps served to bring him to the edge of the natural rampart, and then, removing his sombrero, he peered over. What he saw a few feet below him caused him to exercise all his self-control to avoid uttering a sharp exclamation. Around a smoldering fire, above which hung an iron pot that emitted a savory odor, lay several men. Swarthy Mexicans they were, with villainous countenances for the most part, although, to Jack’s astonishment, one of the party had a fair Saxon skin and reddish hair, which, with his blue eyes, made him seem oddly out of place in the midst of the dark-skinned, black-orbed group.
But Jack had little time to note these details, for something else entirely occupied his attention. This object was nothing less than one of the party who sat somewhat apart, trying the edge of a hunting knife he had been sharpening upon a bit of madrone wood. In the hawk-like countenance and slender, active form, Jack Merrill had not the least difficulty in recognizing Black Ramon de Barros himself. At a short distance from the swarthy rascal grazed his famous coal-black horse. Even in his somewhat awkward position Jack could not repress a thrill of admiration as he gazed at the splendid proportions and anatomy of the glossy-coated beast, through whose delicate nostrils the light shone redly.
“Lucky thing I’m down the wind from that outfit,” thought the Border Boy. “I’ve heard it said that Black Ramon’s horse can detect the presence of a stranger as readily as a keen-scented fox.”
Most of the Mexicans were rolling and smoking slender cigarettes of powdered tobacco and yellow corn paper. These had occasioned the acrid smell which had luckily betrayed the existence of the camp to Jack before a false step could make them aware of his presence. Expelling a cloud of blue smoke from his thin lips, Black Ramon began speaking. He was addressing the red-haired man who looked so oddly out of place although he wore Mexican garb, red sash, flowing trousers, short jacket and cone-crowned sombrero with a mighty rim.
“You are sure that this Ruggles was not mistaken, Senor Canfield?” he was saying.
The other shook his head.
“I’d take my oath to that on a stack of Bibles,” he said. “Ruggles was a pretty level-headed chap although he led a fool’s life, and if he says the In’jun told of a treasure in the Trembling Mountain he was right.”
“What puzzles me, though, is that he should have told you of it as well as this Americano Stetson,—curses be upon him,”—grumbled Black Ramon. “If he was, as you say, ‘on the level,’ why should he have betrayed his friend’s confidence?”