On over that open plain, with all the speed she can take out of her horse,—all that whip, and spur, and voice can accomplish!
She alone speaks. Her pursuers are voiceless—silent as spectres!
Only once does she glance behind. There are still but four of them; but four is too many against one—and that one a woman!
There is no hope, unless she can get within hail of the Texans.
She presses on for the alhuehueté.
Chapter Sixty Seven.
Los Indios!
The chased equestrian is within three hundred yards of the bluff, over which the tree towers. She once more glances behind her.