With hearts full of anger and chagrin, they give it up. Some apprehension have they as well. El Zopilote is not with them; what will he say on their returning empty-handed? what do? For it is now no mere matter of the catching of a horse; instead, more serious—a courier gone off to bring succour to the besieged.
Down-hearted and dejectedly they turn their horses’ heads, and ride back for Nauchampa-tepetl.
Had the Coyoteros stuck to their faith in the probability of accidents and continued the pursuit, they might have overtaken Henry Tresillian after all. For scarce have they turned backs upon him when a mishap befalls him, not absolutely staying him in his course, but delaying him wellnigh an hour. He is making to regain the road which runs north from Arispe, at the point where the caravan, forced by want of water, had deflected from it to the Cerro Perdido. In daylight he could have ridden straight to it; for since then from the mesas summit Pedro Vicente had pointed to guide-marks indicating the spot where his initials were carved upon the palmida. But in his haste now, amid the glamour of a newly-risen moon, the messenger has gone astray, only discovering it when his horse suddenly staggering forward comes down upon his knees, shooting him out of the saddle.
He is less hurt than surprised. Never before has Crusader made false step or stumble, and why now?
A moment reveals the reason: the ground has given way beneath, letting him down knee-deep into a hole, the burrow of some animal.
Fortunately, there are no bones broken, no damage done either to horse or rider; and the latter, recovering his seat in the saddle, essays to proceed. Soon to be a second time brought to a stand, though not now unhorsed. Crusader but lurches, keeping his legs, though again near going down.
The young Englishman perceives what it is: he is riding through a warren of the kind well known on the plains of Western America as “a prairie-dog town or village.” In the moonlight he sees the hillocks of these marmots all around, with the animals themselves squatting on them; hears their tiny squirrel-like bark, intermingling with the hoot of the quaint little owl which shares their subterranean habitations.
Once more at halt, he again bethinks himself what is best to do. Shall he ride back and go round the village, or continue on across it, taking the chances of the treacherous ground?
He listens, soon to become assured that the pursuit has been abandoned, thus giving him choice to act deliberately, and do as seems best to him.