“My fren’,” said he, with a directness and succinctness utterly foreign to his everyday speech, “you want to know what happen’. Ver’ well; it was like this.”
He told us that, after we had left them, they hurried on as fast as possible in order to reach the settled country. Owing to the excellence of his animal he was generally some distance in advance. At one point, stopping on a slight elevation to allow them to catch up, he looked back in time to see two men on horseback emerge from the chaparral 251 just behind his companions. Don Gaspar shouted and leaped from his saddle; but before the warning had reached the others, a riata from the hand of one of the men had fallen with deadly accuracy around Yank’s arms and body, jerking him violently from the saddle. The thrower whirled his horse to drag his victim, Don Gaspar fired, and by great good luck shot the animal through the brain. It fell in a heap, pinning its rider beneath it. In the meantime Barry had leaped to the ground, and from behind the shelter of his horse had shot the first robber through the body. Our two companions now drew together, and took refuge behind some large rocks, preparing to receive the charge of a band of half dozen who now appeared. The situation looked desperate. Don Gaspar fired and missed. He was never anything of a marksman, and his first shot must have been a great piece of luck. Barry held his fire. The robbers each discharged his rifle, but harmlessly. Then just as they seemed about to charge in, they whirled their horses and made off into the brush.
“We could not tell the why,” observed Don Gaspar.
The two men did not speculate, but ran out to where Yank lay, apparently dead, his arms still bound close to his body by the noose of the riata. Barry cut the rope with his bowie knife, and they rolled him over. They found he still breathed, but that, beside the shock of his violent fall, he had been badly trampled by the horses. After a moment he came to consciousness, but when they attempted to lift him upright, they found that his leg was broken.
At this moment they heard the sound of voices, and, 252 looking up, saw coming from the other direction a band of a dozen men, half of whom were on horseback, and all of whom were armed. This looked serious.
“We got behind the rock,” said Don Gaspar, “but we think to ourself our goose is cook.”
The newcomers, however, proved to be miners, who had heard the shots, and who now came hurrying up. Evidently the robbers had caught sight or sound of their approach. They were much interested in the state of affairs, examined the horse Don Gaspar had killed, searched for and found the body of the robber Barry had shot. It proved to be a Mexican, well known to them all, and suspected to be a member of Andreas Amijo’s celebrated band. They inquired for the dead horse’s rider.
“And then, for the first time,” said Don Gaspar, “we think of him. He went down with his horse. But now he was gone; and also the horse of Señor Yank. But I think he crawl off in the chaparral; and that the horse of Señor Yank run away with the other horse of the dead man.”
And then, I must confess, to our disbelief in the tale, Don Gaspar told us that the miners, their curiosity satisfied, calmly prepared to return to their diggings, quite deaf to all appeals for further help.
“They say to us,” narrated Don Gaspar evenly, “that they wash much gold, and that they cannot take the time; and when I tell them our friend is dying, they laugh, and essay that we ought to be glad they come and essave our lives; and that we get along all right.”