“No harm, I reckin, Cap’n?”
“The man—the Mexican? How did he look?—what like?” I demanded anxiously.
“Like?” repeated the hunter. “Why, Cap’n, I ’ud call him as ugly a skunk as yer kin skeer up any whar—’ceptin’ it mout be among the Digger Injuns; but yer kin see for yurself—he’s clost by.”
I leaped from my horse, and followed Lincoln through the bushes. Twenty paces brought us to the object of our search, upon the border of a small glade. The body lay upon its back, where it had been flung by the rearing mustang. The moon was shining full upon the face. I stooped down to examine it. A single glance was sufficient. I had never seen the features before. They were coarse and swart, and the long black locks were matted and woolly. He was a zambo; and, from the half-military equipments that clung around his body, I saw that he had been a guerillero. Lincoln was right.
“Wal, Cap’n,” said he, after I had concluded my examination of the corpse, “ain’t he a picter?”
“You think he was waiting for us?”
“For us or some other game—that’s sartin.”
“There’s a road branches off here to Medellin,” said Raoul, coming up.
“It could not have been for us: they had no knowledge of our intention to come out.”
“Possibly enough, Captain,” remarked Clayley in a whisper to me. “That villain would naturally expect us to return here. He will have learned all that has passed: Narcisso’s escape—our visits. You know he would watch night and day to trap either of us.”