“Tula! Tula! Tula!” shrilled the Indian women.
Tula was steadily gaining on the German, and Kit was only a few rods behind as they dashed down the slight incline to that too green belt in the floor of the brown desert.
He heard someone, Marto he thought, shouting his name and calling “Sumidero! Sumidero!” He did not understand, and kept right on. Others were shouting at Tula with as little result, the clatter of the horses and the rumble of the breaking storm made all a formless chaos of sound.
The frenzied scream of a horse came to him, and another lightning flash showed Conrad, ghastly and staring, leap from the saddle––in the middle of the little valley––and Tula ride down on top of him!
Then a rope fell around Kit’s shoulders, pinioning his arms and he was jerked from the horse with a thud that for a space stunned him into semi-unconsciousness, but through it he heard again the pitiful scream of a dumb animal, and shouts of Marto to the frenzied Indians.
“Ha! Clodomiro, the reata! Wait for the lightning, then over her shoulders! Only the horse is caught;––steady and a true hand, boy! Ai-yi! You are master, and the Mother of God is your help! Run your horse back,––run, curse you! or she will sink as he sinks! Sangre de Christo! she cuts the reata!”
Kit struggled out of the rope, and got to his feet in time to see the flash of her knife as she whirled to her victim. Again and again it descended as the man, now submerged to the waist, caught her. His screams of fear were curdling to the blood, but high above the German voice of fear sounded the Indian voice of triumph, and from the vengeful cry of “Judas! Judas! Judas of the world!” her voice turned sharply to the high clear chant Kit had heard in the hidden cañon of the red gold. It was as she said––there would be none of her caste and clan to sing her death song to the waiting ghosts, and she was singing it.
As those weird triumphant calls went out from the place of death every Indian answered them with shouts as of fealty, and in the darkness Kit felt as if among a circle of wolves giving tongue in some signal not to be understood by men.
He could hear the sobs of men and boys about him, but not a measure of that wild wail failed to bring the ever recurring response from the brown throats.
Marto, wet and trembling, cursed and prayed at the horror of it, and moved close to Kit in the darkness.