“But we have somethin’ to git from them,” rejoined one of the hunters, with a significant look. “Digger plew good as any other; worth jest as much as ’Pash chief.”
“No one must fire,” said Seguin, in a firm tone. “It is too soon yet; look yonder!” and he pointed over the plain, where two or three glancing objects, the helmets of the retreating warriors, could still be seen above the grass.
“How are we goin’ to get them, then, captain?” inquired the hunter. “They’ll beat us to the rocks; they kin run like scared dogs.”
“Better let them go, poor devils!” said Seguin, seemingly unwilling that blood should be spilled so wantonly.
“No, captain,” rejoined the same speaker, “we won’t fire, but we’ll git them, if we kin, ’ithout it. Boys, follow me down this way.”
And the man was about guiding his horse in among the loose rocks, so as to pass unperceived between the dwarfs and the mountain.
But the brutal fellow was frustrated in his design; for at that moment El Sol and his sister appeared in the opening, and their brilliant habiliments caught the eyes of the Diggers. Like startled deer they sprang to their feet, and ran, or rather flew, toward the foot of the mountain. The hunters galloped to intercept them, but they were too late. Before they could come up, the Diggers had dived into the crevices of the rocks, or were seen climbing like chamois along the cliffs, far out of reach.
One of the hunters only—Sanchez—succeeded in making a capture. His victim had reached a high ledge, and was scrambling along it, when the lasso of the bull-fighter settled round his neck. The next moment he was plucked out into the air, and fell with a “cranch” upon the rocks!
I rode forward to look at him. He was dead. He had been crushed by the fall; in fact, mangled to a shapeless mass, and exhibited a most loathsome and hideous sight.
The unfeeling hunter recked not of this. With a coarse jest he stooped over the body; and severing the scalp, stuck it, reeking and bloody, behind the waist of his calzoneros!