Meanwhile a man, in appearance somewhat differing from the rest, was seen moving among them.
Indian in garb and guise, savage in his accoutrements, as the colour of his skin, he nevertheless, showed features more resembling races that are civilised. His countenance was of a cast apparently Caucasian, its lineaments unlike those of the American aboriginal; above all, unlike in his having a heavy beard, growing well forward upon his cheeks, and bushing down below the chin.
True, that among the Comanche Indians bearded men are occasionally met with—mestizos, the descendants of renegade whites. But none paraded as he, who now appeared stalking around the ruined caravan. And there was another individual by his side, who had also hair upon his cheeks, though thinner and more straggling; while the speech passing between the two was not the guttural tongue of the Tenawa Comanches, but pure Mexican Spanish.
Both were on foot, having dismounted; he with the heavy beard leading, the other keeping after as if in attendance.
The former flitted from one to another of those who lay slain; in turn stooping over each corpse, and scrutinising it—to some giving but a cursory glance, to others more careful examination—then leaving each with an air of disappointment, and a corresponding exclamation.
At length, after going the complete round of the dead, he faced towards his satellite, saying,—
“Por dios! he don’t appear to be among them! What can it mean? There could be no doubt of his intention to accompany the caravan. Here it is, and here we are; but where is he? Carajo! If he has escaped me, I shall feel as if I’d had all this trouble for nothing.”
“Think of the precious plunder,” rejoined the other. “These grand carretas are loaded with rich goods. Surely they don’t count for nothing.”
“A fig for the goods! I’d give more for his scalp than all the silks and satins that were ever carried to Santa Fé. Not that I’d care to keep such a trifle. The Horned Lizard will be welcome to it, soon as I see it stripped from his skull. That’s what I want to see. But where is it? Where is he? Certainly not among these. There isn’t one of them the least like him. Surely it must be his party, spoken of in his letter? No other has been heard of coming by this route. There they lie, all stark and staring—men, mules, and horses—all but him.”
The smoke has thinned off, only a thin film still wafting about the waggons, whose canvas tilts, now consumed, expose their contents—some of them badly burnt, some but slightly scorched. The freebooters have commenced to drag out boxes and bales, their chief by a stern command having restrained them from returning to take the scalps of the slain. All has been the work of only a few moments—less than ten minutes of time—for it is scarce so much since Wilder and Hamersley, stealing out between the wheels, rode off under cover of the cloud.