“At what?”
“The fellur ridin’ foremost. D’ye see the anymal he’s on? It’s the same we war obleeged to abandon on takin’ to the rocks.”
“By heavens! my horse!”
“Yurs, to a sartinty.”
“And his rider! The man I fought with at Chihuahua, the ruffian Uraga!”
On recognising his antagonist in the duel, the Kentuckian gives out a groan. The Texan, too. For on both the truth flashes in all its fulness—all its terrible reality.
It is not the possession of Hamersley’s horse, identifying its rider with the destroyers of the caravan. That is nothing new, and scarce surprises them. What pains—agonises them—is the direction in which the soldiers are proceeding.
They can have no doubt as to the purpose of the military march, or the point to which it is tending.
“Yes,” says Walt, “they’re strikin’ straight fur the valley, goin’ ’ithout guess-work, too. Thar’s a guide along, an’ thar’s been a treetur.”
“Who do you think?”