No! The mirage could not effect such a complete picture. There were the roofs, and chimneys, and walls, and windows. There were the parapets of fortified houses, with their regular notches and embrasures. It was a reality. It was a city!
Was it the Cibolo of the Spanish padre? Was it that city of golden gates and burnished towers? After all, was the story of the wandering priest true? Who had proved it a fable? Who had ever penetrated this region, the very country in which the ecclesiastic represented the golden city of Cibolo to exist?
I saw that Seguin was puzzled, dismayed, as well as myself. He knew nothing of this land. He had never witnessed a mirage like that.
For some time we sat in our saddles, influenced by strange emotions. Shall we go forward? Yes! We must reach water. We are dying of thirst; and, impelled by this, we spur onward.
We had ridden only a few paces farther when the hunters uttered a sudden and simultaneous cry. A new object—an object of terror—was before us. Along the mountain foot appeared a string of dark forms. They were mounted men!
We dragged our horses to their haunches, our whole line halting as one man.
“Injuns!” was the exclamation of several.
“Indians they must be,” muttered Seguin. “There are no others here. Indians! No! There never were such as them. See! they are not men! Look! their huge horses, their long guns; they are giants! By Heaven!” continued he, after a moment’s pause, “they are bodiless! They are phantoms!”
There were exclamations of terror from the hunters behind.
Were these the inhabitants of the city? There was a striking proportion in the colossal size of the horses and the horsemen.