I recognized both instantly. The Mexican was Luiz Castro, a man who bore a bad name among the settlements, and his companion was Scarface—so called from a couple of ugly knife marks on his cheek—and a very bad Indian, indeed, if reports were to be believed.
The Apache had been driven from his tribe for some misdemeanor, and for several years he and the Mexican had been inseparable companions—a very odd friendship, to say the least.
I concluded not to stop for a drink at that spring.
“Can you tell me the way to Block’s Ranch?” I inquired, respectfully.
The Apache looked at me stolidly, but Castro quickly replied:
“Si, señor; straight ahead through yonder ravine. You can’t miss it.”
I thanked him, and nodding briefly, rode on. The ravine referred to was just ahead, and I had gone a mile or more when the suspicion suddenly occurred to me that Castro might have misdirected me for some evil purpose.
I carried quite a sum of money which I had no desire to lose, and as rapidly as possible I rode on until a sudden gloom warned me that darkness was at hand. The ravine showed no signs of terminating, and my suspicion became a certainty.
The two scoundrels had guided me to this lonely spot with the intention, no doubt, of waylaying and shooting me. They were quite capable of such a deed, I well knew.
I shivered at the thought, and taking a hasty glance behind, put spurs to my mustang and trotted ahead as rapidly as the narrow, uncertain path would allow.