“Carrambo!” exclaimed Pepe. “It’s a murderous climb. My poor beast’s so jaded with the buffalo running, that he’ll scarce get up. Carrai!”
After a short ride through the thicket and along the bottom of the cliffs, they arrived at a point where a ravine sloped to the upper plain. Up the bottom of this ravine was a difficult pass—difficult on account of its steepness. Any other horses than mountain-reared mustangs would have refused it, but these can climb like cats. Even the dogs could scarcely crawl up this ascent. In spite of its almost vertical slope, the hunters dismounted, crawled up, and, pulling their horses after them, soon reached the table-land above.
After breathing themselves and their animals, they once more got astride, and, heading northward, rode rapidly off over the plain.
“Now, boy Pepe,” muttered the mulatto, “chance meet any sheep-keepers, going after antelope; you hear?”
“Ay, Man’l; I understand.”
These were the last words exchanged between them for ten miles. They rode in file—the mulatto in the lead, the zambo in his tracks, and the dogs following in the rear. These two went also in file, the bloodhound heading the wolf.
At the end of ten miles they reached a dry river channel, that ran transversely across their route. It was the same which Carlos and his party had followed on the day of their escape after the affair at the Presidio. The hunters entered it, and, turning downward, as Carlos had done, followed it to its mouth upon the banks of the Pecos. Here was a grove of timber, which they entered, and, having dismounted, tied their horses to the trees. These animals, though lately arrived from a long journey, and now having passed over more than thirty miles at a brisk rate, showed no symptoms of being done up. Lean though they were, they possessed the tough wiry strength of their race, and either of them could have gone another hundred miles without breaking down.
This their masters well knew, else they would have gone upon their man-hunt with less confidence of success.
“May gallop away on his fine black,” remarked the mulatto, as he glanced at the mustangs. “Soon overhaul him again—won’t we, boy Pepe?”
“Chinga! we will.”