He knew that if he came up with the Regulators, equivocation would be a dangerous game; and, nolens volens, he should be compelled to guide them to the dwelling of the suspected murderer.
On turning the angle of the avenue, he had the chagrin to see the searchers directly before him, clumped up in a crowd, and apparently engaged in the examination of “sign.”
At the same time he had the satisfaction to know that his caution was rewarded, by himself remaining unseen.
“Durn them!” he muttered, with bitter emphasis. “I mout a know’d they’d a bin hyur. I must go back an roun’ the tother way. It’ll deelay me better’n a hour. Come, ole maar! This air an obstruckshun you, won’t like. It’ll gi’e ye the edition o’ six more mile to yur journey. Ee-up, ole gal! Roun’ an back we go!”
With a strong pull upon the rein, he brought the mare short round, and rode back towards the embouchure of the avenue.
Once outside, he turned along the edge of the chapparal, again entering it by the path which on the day before had been taken by Diaz and his trio of confederates. From this point he proceeded without pause or adventure until he had descended to the Alamo bottom-land, and arrived within a short distance, though still out of sight of the mustanger’s dwelling.
Instead of riding boldly up to it, he dismounted from his mare; and leaving her behind him, approached the jacalé with his customary caution.
The horse-hide door was closed; but there was a large aperture in the middle of it, where a portion of the skin had been cut out. What was the meaning of that?
Zeb could not answer the question, even by conjecture.
It increased his caution; and he continued his approach with as much stealth, as if he had been stalking an antelope.