As it was, we still believed that we had them in the trap, and it was only a question of time and strategy to bring the affair to a termination.
By withdrawing to the trees we had obtained a more advantageous position. It gave us a better chance of aiming at any object on the azotea; and as the sky was each instant becoming clearer, we could distinguish the loopholes along the parapet.
They were but rude holes—the ragged interstices between the logs—but good enough for the purpose for which they had evidently been left in the fabrication of the dwelling.
We expected to see faces behind them, or something we might fire at. We saw nothing—not so much as a hand!
The brigands had by this time discovered who were their assailants, and no doubt knew something of the skill of the American rifleman. Mistrusting it, they were keeping close—not even daring to look through the loopholes.
They were not far astray in their tactics—if such they were. Not a clear spot on the parapet that was not watched with eager eyes, and fingers ready to press upon the trigger.
For full five minutes did the inaction continue—five minutes that seemed fifty!
To me the delay was intolerable as some slow subtle torture. I was scheming how to put an end to it, when, to my astonishment, I saw a form rising above the parapet. It was that of a tall man, whose dark silhouette became outlined against the lighter background of the sky.
At a glance I recognised Carrasco!
I can scarcely tell what restrained me from sending a bullet through his body. Perhaps surprise at the unexpected apparition?