“To-morrow,” said Guinane, as he lay down to snatch a short repose, while our horses were feeding, “to-morrow I shall have revenge or death! My prayer is, God let me live until to-morrow!”
Again we were in the saddle—urging our horses along the road to San Luis Obispo.
We reached that place at the hour of noon. Another disappointment for my companion!
San Louis is a seaport. A small vessel had departed that morning for Mazatlan, and the Mexicans were aboard of her!
On arriving at the port, they had hastily disposed of their animals; and taken passage on the vessel—which chanced to be on the eve of sailing. We were just one hour too late!
To think of following them further would have been worse than madness—which is folly. By the time we could reach Mazatlan, they might be hundreds of miles off—in the interior of Mexico.
Never have I witnessed such despondency, as was exhibited by Guinane at that moment.
So long as there had appeared a chance of overtaking the men, who had injured him, he had been sustained by the hope of revenge; but on our relinquishing the pursuit, the recollection of the many misfortunes that had darkened his life, added to this new chagrin, came palpably before his mind, suggesting thoughts of suicide!
“’Twas folly to pursue them at all,” said he. “I should have known that the chance of overtaking them would have been a stroke of fortune too good to be mine. Fate has never yet been so kind to me, as to grant a favour I so much desired; and I was a fool to expect it. Shall I die?”
I used every means in my power to direct his thoughts to some other subject; but he seemed not to heed, either what I said or did.