“No matter what she may say, I’m going in,” he decided. “I must see her, even though nothing comes of it but her calling me names....”
And he rode slowly forward down the trail leading to the ranch house. Suddenly his horse started and quickened his walk, then stopped abruptly as though about to rear.
Across the path lay the bodies of two dogs, recently killed, it seemed, for their mangled heads lay in two fresh rivulets of blood. A few paces farther on he found a man also stretched across the trail.
He too was dead. Richard recognized him as one of don Carlos’ half-breed peons, although his head was frightfully shattered by the explosion of the bullets at close range. One of the corpse’s eye sockets was completely empty, and through this opening to the skull was oozing some of the brain. The thirsty earth was avidly drinking up the murdered man’s blood.
Watson flung himself down from his horse, and holding his revolver in his right hand, he made his way toward the house. When, on looking through the door opening into the living room he saw no one, he began to call.
The wicker chair in which Celinda usually sat lay overturned on the floor. The cover of the large table had apparently been roughly pulled off and lay on the ground, while the papers and small objects that usually covered it were scattered about under foot.
He continued shouting “Where are you?... It’s me, Watson!” until steps finally became audible in the hall leading to the inner rooms of the ranch house; and finally there appeared in the doorway the wrinkled, copper-colored face of Cachafaz’s mother. Then the other servants, all of them half-breeds, also crept out of their hiding places; but to Watson’s questions they stammered unintelligible replies or else maintained a terrified silence.
Richard came out of the house just in time to see young Cachafaz peer anxiously out from one of the corrals; and no sooner did the others see the boy than they all began giving their account of what had taken place; but the little fellow spoke with a certain authoritative air of knowing what he was about and Watson listened attentively.
He, Cachafaz, had been with his young mistress that morning and had seen everything. Three men had come galloping towards the house full speed. Then the dogs began to bark and just as he stepped out of the house to run and see what was the matter with them, he heard the shots that killed the poor hounds. Then he saw a peon running towards the horsemen, probably to ask them why they were coming into the ranch in that fashion; but before he could say a word they drew their revolvers and shot him down.
“I ran through the house,” continued Cachafaz breathlessly. “The señorita was just going out to see what was happening when three men rushed in and threw a poncho over her head; then they picked her up and carried her away.... I was under the table ... but as soon as they had gone I crept out and I saw them get on their horses, carrying my mistress this way in their arms ... so ... under their ponchos. That’s all I know.”