"A great man! A wickedly great man!"
Roylston turned his look away, and interlaced his fingers thoughtfully.
"A good description, I think," he said. "You have chosen your words well. A singular compound is this Mexican, a mixture of greatness, vanity and evil. I may talk to you more of him some day. But I tell you now that I am particularly desirous of not being carried a prisoner to him."
He lifted the rifle, put its stock to his shoulder, and drew a bead.
"I think I could hit at forty or fifty yards in this good moonlight," he said.
He replaced the rifle across his knees and sighed. Ned was curious, but he would not ask questions, and he walked back to his old position by the bank. Here he made himself easy, and kept his eyes on the deep trench that had been cut by the stream. The shadows were dark against the bank, but it seemed to him that they were darker than they had been before.
Ned's blood turned a little colder, and his scalp tingled. He
was startled but not afraid. He looked intently, and saw moving figures in the river bed, keeping close against the bank. He could not see faces, he could not even discern a clear outline of the figures, but he had no doubt that these were Urrea's Mexicans. He waited only a moment longer to assure himself that the dark moving line was fact and not fancy. Then, aiming his rifle at the foremost shape, he fired. While the echo of the sharp crack was yet speeding across the plain he cried:
"Up, men! up! Urrea is here!"
A volley came from the creek bed, but in an instant the Panther, Obed, Will and Fields were by Ned's side.