We had crossed the sandy spur, with its chaparral of cactus and mezquite, and were entering a gorge of heavy timber, when the practised eye of Lincoln detected an object in the dark shadow of the woods, and communicated the fact to me.
“Halt!” cried I, in a low voice.
The party reined up at the order. A rustling was heard in the bushes ahead.
“Quien viva?” challenged Raoul, in the advance.
“Un amigo,” (A friend), was the response.
I sprang forward to the side of Raoul and called out:
“Acercate! acercate!” (Come near!)
A figure moved out of the bushes, and approached.
“Está el Capitan?” (Is it the captain?)
I recognised the guide given me by Don Cosmé.