In a moment all was over. The terrified mustangs had sprung out from the cliff—had carried their riders into eternity!
The dusky warriors pulled up near the brink, and sat gazing upon each other in silent awe.
A horseman dashed to the front; and, poising his horse upon the very edge, looked down into the abysm. It was the White Chief.
For some moments he regarded the shapeless masses that lay below. He saw that they moved not. Men and horses were all dead crushed, bruised, and shattered—a hideous sight to behold!
A deep sigh escaped him, as though some weight had been lifted from his heart, and, turning around he muttered to his friend—
“Don Juan! I have kept my oath—she is avenged!”
The setting sun saw that long line of Indian warriors filing from the valley, and heading for the plain of the Llano Estacado. But they went not as they had come. They returned to their country laden with the plunder of San Ildefonso—to them the legitimate spoils of war.
The cibolero still rode at their head, and Don Juan the ranchero was by his side. The fearful scenes through which they had just passed shadowed the brows of both; but these shadows became lighter as they dwelt on the prospect before them. Each looked forward to a happy greeting at the end of his journey.
Carlos did not remain long among his Indian friends. Loaded with the treasure they had promised, he proceeded farther east, and established a plantation upon the Red River of Louisiana. Here, in the company of his beautiful wife, his sister, Don Juan, and some of his old servants, he led in after years a life of peace and prosperity.