“There’s a heavy chaparral,” said the Frenchman, musing; “it’s ten miles off. If we could reach that we’re safe—a wolf can hardly crawl through it. We must make it before day.”
“Lead on, then, Rowl!”
We stole along with cautious steps. The rustling of a leaf or the cracking of a dead stick might betray us; for we could hear signals upon all sides, and our pursuers passing us in small parties, within earshot.
We bore to the right, in order to reach the creek bottom of which Lincoln had spoken. We soon came into this, and followed the stream down, but not on the bank. Lincoln would not hear of our taking the bank path, arguing that our pursuers would be “sartin ter foller the cl’ar trail.”
The hunter was right, for shortly after a party came down the stream. We could hear the clinking of their accoutrements, and even the conversation of some of the men, as follows:
“But, in the first place, how did they get loose within? and who cut the wall from the outside, unless someone helped them? Carajo! it’s not possible.”
“That’s true, José,” said another voice. “Someone must, and I believe it was that giant that got away from us at the rancho. The shot that killed the snake came from the chaparral, and yet we searched and found nobody. Mark my words, it was he; and I believe he has hung upon our track all the way.”
“Vaya!” exclaimed another; “I shouldn’t much like to be under the range of his rifle; they say he can kill a mile off, and hit wherever he pleases. He shot the snake right through the eyes.”
“By the Virgin!” said one of the guerilleros, laughing, “he must have been a snake of good taste, to be caught toying around that dainty daughter of the old Spaniard! It reminds me of what the Book tells about Mother Eve and the old serpent. Now, if the Yankee’s bullet—.”
We could hear no more, as the voices died away in the distance and under the sound of the water.