“Forward!” was my hurried response, “Guide me to her, and you may make your own terms about money!”
What cared I for the vile dross, of which I had ten thousand dollars in my keeping? True, it was not my own. It belonged to Don Eusebio Villa-Señor. But had I not been intrusted with it for the ransom of his daughters? And was this not the way in which I was employing it?
The Mexican seemed to comprehend me, and with a clearness that left nothing misunderstood. Willingly he led the way; and with equal willingness was he followed by myself and comrades.
Our journey proved but a short one. After climbing a rocky ridge, we came within sight of a forest-covered tract—lying just under the line of the snow.
The guide pointed to it—saying that there we should find the man we were in search of. There was a rancho among the pines. On reaching it, we might make sure of seeing Carrasco!
This rancho was the “head-quarters” of the cuadrilla—the cabin on the cliff serving as a sort of outlying post, to be used only in cases of close pursuit. The salteadores had but halted there, to wait for the morning light—the more safely to make the passage of the swing bridge.
Their real rendezvous was the rancho—a large house in the heart of the pine-forest, where the renegade assured us we would find his chief, his comrades, and their captives.
“Lead on!” I cried, roused to renewed energy at thought of the last. “A hundred pesos for every minute spared. On! on!”
Without another word the Mexican struck off among the trees, the sergeant treading close upon his tracks.
It was now broad daylight; but in five minutes after we were again in twilight darkness.