“We dare not,” said Seguin; “their dogs would find the blood. It might betray us.”
“I can procure one without letting a drop,” rejoined a Mexican hunter.
“How?” inquired several in a breath.
The man pointed to his lasso.
“But your tracks; you would make deep footmarks in the struggle?”
“We can blind them, captain,” rejoined the man.
“You may try, then,” assented the chief.
The Mexican unfastened the lasso from his saddle, and, taking a companion, proceeded to the spring. They crept in among the willows, and lay in wait. We watched them from the ridge.
They had not remained more than a quarter of an hour when a herd of antelopes was seen approaching from the plain. These walked directly for the spring, one following the other in Indian file. They were soon close in to the willows where the hunters had concealed themselves. Here they suddenly halted, throwing up their heads and snuffing the air. They had scented danger, but it was too late for the foremost to turn and lope off.
“Yonder goes the lasso!” cried one.