“Show a light some of you; I’ve got him,” shouted von Tempsky. “But—why, the man’s dead!”
Jago dismounted, and, striking a light, revealed the pallid face of a Mexican, who lay with an arrow through his back. Von Tempsky, who had been the only one of the riders to notice the recumbent figure, had imagined it to be that of an Indian spy or sentinel, and had at once made a grab at his throat, only to find the body stiff and quite cold.
“One more score against them,” cried the doctor. “Ride on.”
They travelled all night and till long after daybreak, without meeting or seeing anyone; and at length Steel called another halt for a few hours. Presently, as he and von Tempsky sat chatting, the latter drew his attention to a body of mounted men riding slowly across their projected path, a couple of miles away.
“We’ve got them this time,” said Steel, jumping up.
“Those are not Indians, Señor,” said Jago.
“Tch! Look at their spears, man.”
“I do. They are our Mexican lancers. There; do you not hear their bugle?”
A faint note or two from some brass instrument was carried to them by the wind.