Not a word was spoken between them. Roblado also had his pistol in readiness and fired first, but missed his aim. He perceived this, and, dreading the fire from his adversary, he staggered back to the bank, shouting to his followers to discharge their carbines.
Before they could obey the order, the crack of the cibolero’s pistol rang upon the air, and Roblado, with a loud oath, rolled down by the edge of the water. Carlos dashed open the gate, and was about to rush onward, when he perceived through the smoke and darkness several carbines brought to the level, and aimed at him. A sudden thought came into his mind, and he changed his design of crossing the bridge. The time was but the pulling of a trigger, but, short as it was, he effected his purpose. The carbines blazed and cracked, all nearly at the same instant, and when the smoke cleared away Carlos was no longer on the bridge! Had he gone back into the garden? No—already half-a-dozen men had cut off his retreat in that direction!
“He is killed!” cried several voices, “Carajo!—he has fallen into the river! Mira!”
All eyes were turned upon the stream. Certainly a body had plunged into it, as the bubbles and circling waves testified, but only these were to be seen! “He has sunk! he’s gone to the bottom!” cried some.
“Be sure he hasn’t swum away!” counselled a voice; and several ran along the banks with their eyes searching the surface.
“Impossible! there are no waves.”
“He could not have passed here,” said one who stood a little below the bridge. “I have been watching the water.”
“So have I,” cried another from above. “He has not passed my position.”
“Then he is dead and gone down!”
“Carajo! let us fish him out!” And they were proceeding to put this idea into execution, when Roblado, who had now got to his feet, finding that a wounded arm was all he had suffered, ordered them to desist.