“El Aleman! El Aleman!” she screamed pointing to him in horror. “He has murdered the padre and taken his robe. It is El Aleman! Your Judas has killed your priest!”
Kit ran for his own horse, but with the quickness of a cat Tula was before him in the saddle, and whirling the animal, leaning low, and her gorgeous manta streaming behind like a banner she sped after the German screaming, “Judas! Judas! Judas of Palomitas!”
And, as in the other chants led by her, the Indian women took up this one in frenzied yells of rage.
The men of the corral heard and leaped to saddles to follow the flying figures, but Kit was ahead,––not much, but enough to be nearest the girl.
Straight as an arrow the fugitive headed for Mesa Blanca, the nearest ranch where a fresh horse could be found, and Doña Jocasta and some of the women without horses stood in the plaza peering after that wild race in the gray of the coming night.
The Indian girl was steadily gaining on the German.
A flash of lightning outlined the three ahead, and a wail of utter terror went up from them all.
“Mother of God, the cañon of the quicksand!” cried Doña Jocasta.