“Dios me amparé!” (God preserve me.)
God preserve her! She will be too late!
The foremost of her pursuers has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn: he is winding it over his head!
Before she can reach the head of the pass, the noose will be around her neck, and then—
And then, a sudden thought flashes into her mind—thought that promises escape from the threatened strangulation.
The cliff that overlooks the Alamo is nearer than the gorge, by which the creek bottom must be reached. She remembers that its crest is visible from the jacalé.
With a quick jerk upon the rein, she diverges from her course; and, instead of going on for the alhuehueté, she rides directly towards the bluff.
The change puzzles her pursuers—at the same time giving them gratification. They well know the “lay” of the land. They understand the trending of the cliff; and are now confident of a capture.
The leader takes a fresh hold of his lazo, to make more sure of the throw. He is only restrained from launching it, by the certainty she cannot escape.
“Chingaro!” mutters he to himself, “if she go much farther, she’ll be over the precipice!”