On arriving at the month of the ravine he halted—not in the middle of the plain, but under the shadow of the rocks—the same rocks where the hunters had placed themselves in ambush. He did not dismount, but sat in his saddle, gazing up the cañon, and listening for some token of the expected pursuit.
He had not been long in this spot when he perceived a dark object approaching him. It gave him joy, for he recognised Cibolo coming along his trail. The next moment the dog was by his stirrup. The cibolero bent down in his saddle, and perceived that the poor brute was badly cut and bleeding profusely. Several gashes appeared along his side, and one near his shoulder exhibited a flap of hanging skin, over which the red stream was pouring. The animal was evidently weak from loss of blood, and tottered in his tracks.
“Amigo!” said Carlos, “you have saved my life to a certainty. It’s my turn to save yours—if I can.”
As he said this he dismounted, and, taking the dog in his arms, climbed back into the saddle.
For a while he sat reflecting what to do, with his eyes turned in the direction from which he expected the pursuit.
He had now no doubt as to who were the occupants of the cave. The bay of the hound was satisfactory evidence of the presence of the yellow hunter, and of course the zambo was along with him. Carlos knew of no other bloodhound in the settlement—the one heard must be that of the mulatto.
For some minutes he remained by the rocks, considering what course he had best take.
“I’ll ride on to the grove,” reflected he, “and hide in it till Antonio comes. They can’t track me this night—it will be too dark. The whole sky is becoming clouded—there will be no more moon to-night I can lie hid all day to-morrow, if they don’t follow. If they do, why, I can see them far enough off to ride away. My poor Cibolo, how you bleed! Heavens, what a gash! Patience, brave friend! When we halt, your wounds shall be looked to. Yes! to the grove I’ll go. They won’t suspect me of taking that direction, as it is towards the settlements. Besides they can’t trail me in the darkness. Ha! what am I thinking of?—not trail me in the darkness! What! I had forgotten the bloodhound! O God, preserve me! These fiends can follow me were it as dark as pitch! God preserve me!”
An anxious expression came over his countenance, and partly from the burden he held in his arms, and partly from the weight of his thoughts, he dropped into an attitude that betokened deep depression. For the first time the hunted outlaw showed symptoms of despair.
For a long while he remained with his head leaning forward, and his body bent over the neck of his horse.