All three are for a time empty, their occupants having stepped out of them. As known, Henry Tresillian has gone up to the summit of the Cerro, and his father is moving about the camp in the company of the mayor-domo, with an eye to superintendence of everything; while Don Estevan, his wife, and daughter, have strolled out along the lake’s edge to enjoy the refreshing breeze wafted over its water. The three promenaders have but made one turn along the sandy shore, and back again, when they hear a cry which not only alarms them, but all within and around the camp—
“Los Indios!”
It has been sent from above—from the head of the ravine; and everybody looks up—all eyes raised simultaneously. To see two men standing on a projecting point of rock, their figures sharply outlined against the blue background of sky; at the same time to recognise them as the gambusino and Henry Tresillian. Only for an instant are these at a stand; only to shout down those terrible words of warning; then both bound into the gorge, and come on at a rush, with risk of breaking their necks.
At its bottom they are met by an excited, clamorous crowd; surrounded and assailed by a very tempest of interrogations. But to these they vouchsafe no answer beyond that implied in their shout; instead, push on to where Don Estevan and the elder Tresillian, now together, stand awaiting them. The senior partner is the first to speak, addressing himself to Vicente:
“You’ve seen Indians, Don Pedro? Where?”
“Out upon the llano, your worship—to north-eastward.”
“You’re sure of it being Indians?”
“Quite sure, señor. We were able to make horses with men on them; the men unlike any with a white skin, but just as those with a red one. Your worship can take my word for their being Indians.”
“I can, and do. But from what you say, it seems they’re still a good way off. How far, think you?”
“Ten miles or more, when we came away from the place where we saw them. They can’t be much nearer yet, as we’ve not been over ten minutes on the way.”