His eyes were sunk in their sockets and gleaming with a lurid light, as if fire was burning within them. His teeth were firmly set—his lips white and tightly drawn, as if he was meditating, or had already made, some desperate resolve. He scarce looked at the tracks, he needed their guidance no longer. He knew there he was going!
The trail crossed a muddy arroyo. The dog sweltered through, and the red clay adhered to his shaggy coat. It corresponded with that with which he had been already besmeared!
Don Juan noticed the circumstance, and pointed it out.
“He has been here before!” said he.
“I know it,” replied Carlos; “I know it all—all. There is no mystery now. Patience, amigo! You shall know all, but now let me think. I have no time for aught else.”
The trail still led in the direction of the town. It did not re-enter the valley, but passed over a sloping country to the upper plain, and then ran nearly parallel with the bluffs.
“Master!” said Antonio, riding up by the side of Carlos, “these are not the tracks of Indian horses, unless they have stolen them. Two of them are troop horses. I know the berradura well. They are officers’ horses, too—I can tell that from the shoeing.”
The cibolero showed no signs of being astonished by this information, nor made he reply. He seemed engrossed with his thoughts.
Antonio, thinking he had not been heard or understood, repeated what he had said.
“Good Antonio!” said the cibolero, turning his eyes on his follower, “do you think me blind or stupid?”