Perceiving some figures upon the plain, he supposes them to be Quantrell and Bosley with the captives. For his face is toward the west, where the sky is still night-shadowed, and he can but indistinctly trace the outlines of horses and men. As their number corresponds to that of his missing comrades, he has no thought of its being other than they. How could he, as none other are likely to be encountered there?
Congratulating himself on his suspicions of the lieutenant’s defection proving unfounded, and that he will now clutch the prize long coveted, he gives his horse the spur, and rides gaily out of the gorge.
Not till then does he perceive that the men before him are in civilised costume, and that but one is on horseback, the other bestriding a mule. And they have no captives, the only other thing seen beside them being a dog!
They are not Quantrell and Bosley!
“Who can they be?” he asks of Chisholm, who has closed up behind him.
“Hanged if I know, cap. Judgin’ by their toggery, they must be whites; though ’gainst that dark sky one can’t make sure about the colour of their hides. A big dog with them. A couple of trappers I take it; or, more likely, Mexican mustangers.”
“Not at all likely, Luke. There’s none o’ them ’bout here—at least I’ve not heard of any since we came this side the Colorado. Cannot be that. I wonder who—”
“No use wonderin’, cap. We can soon settle the point by questioning them. As there’s but the two, they’ll have to tell who they are, or take the consequences.”
By this, the other robbers have come up out of the ravine. Halted in a row, abreast, they also scan the two figures in front, interrogating one another as to who and what they are. All are alike surprised at men there, mounted or afoot; more especially white men, as by their garb they must be. But they have no apprehension at the encounter, seeing there are so few.
The chief, acting on Chisholm’s suggestion, moves confidently forward, the others, in like confidence, following.