Chapter Forty Seven.
An Intercepted Epistle.
Urged by the most abject fear, had El Coyote and his three comrades rushed back to their horses, and scrambled confusedly into the saddle.
They had no idea of returning to the jacalé of Maurice Gerald. On the contrary, their only thought was to put space between themselves and that solitary dwelling—whose owner they had encountered riding towards it in such strange guise.
That it was “Don Mauricio” not one of them doubted. All four knew him by sight—Diaz better than any—but all well enough to be sure it was the Irlandes. There was his horse, known to them; his armas de agua of jaguar-skin; his Navajo blanket, in shape differing from the ordinary serapé of Saltillo;—and his head!
They had not stayed to scrutinise the features; but the hat was still in its place—the sombrero of black glaze which Maurice was accustomed to wear. It had glanced in their eyes, as it came under the light of the moon.
Besides, they had seen the great dog, which Diaz remembered to be his. The staghound had sprung forward in the midst of the struggle, and with a fierce growl attacked the assailant—though it had not needed this to accelerate their retreat.
Fast as their horses could carry them, they rode through the bottom timber; and, ascending the bluff by one of its ravines—not that where they had meant to commit murder—they reached the level of the upper plateau.