“Crusader can only carry one.”
“Ah! Crusader—that’s what you’re thinking of?”
“Por Dios!” exclaims the senior partner, “I see what your son means, Don Roberto; his idea is admirable!”
“Yes,” says the English youth in answer to his father; “I’ve been thinking of it ever since yesterday. On Crusader’s back I can be at Arispe days before any foot messenger could arrive there. Once I had him between my legs, no fear of Indians overtaking me.”
“The very thing!” cries Don Estevan, delighted. “But, Señor Henrique, are you sure you can catch the horse?”
“Catch him! he will come to my call. Once on the plain, and within hearing of my voice, I’ve no fear of his soon being by my side.”
“But why not let me take him?” puts in Pedro Vicente, as if to spare the generous youth from undertaking such a risk. “I know the road better than you, muchacho.”
“That may be,” returns the other. “But I know it well enough. Besides, Crusader will let no one catch him but myself—much less ride him.”
During all this conversation the bystanders regard the young Englishman with looks of admiration. Never before have they seen so much courage combined with intelligence. And all to be exerted in their favour; for they have not forgotten the fate of their two comrades, put to death in such a cruel fashion. Every one of them fears that the like may befall himself, should it be his ill luck to draw a black pinon out of the sombrero.
Not the least in admiration is Robert Tresillian himself: his heart swells with pride at the gallant bearing of the boy, his own son, worthy of the ancestral name; and when Don Estevan turns to him to ask whether he objects to the proposal, it is to receive answer: