“How many men did you see?”
“Two only. But there may be more, many more, hidden there among the rocks.”
“What sort of men are they?”
“How can I say? Brigands! A gang perhaps? Not Indians.”
“What were they doing?”
“Watching—those two—as if on guard—as if they certainly knew we were coming—and so watched and waited for us.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Dyke quietly. “I can’t believe it. It’s impossible. Emmie, fall back a bit, and keep with the others.” And he ordered the men to unsling their rifles and to follow him slowly, leaving the pack-mules behind. “Now, Manuel, old boy, come along with me.”
The thing was a fact, no day-dream, no optical delusion.
Dyke saw them plainly, unmistakably, when Manuel drew rein and pointed with outstretched hand. At perhaps five hundred yards distance the sun’s rays, pouring down through a break in the cliff top, had invaded the lower ground and made a bright patch of coloured rock and sand; and here, apparently crouched beneath a huge boulder, but in the full sunlight, the two men were sharply visible, although one had an impression that they themselves were perhaps not aware of how conspicuous they had become. Dyke rode boldly on and Manuel reluctantly for another four hundred yards; and the men, though seeming to watch them, did not once stir.
Dyke dismounted, gave his mule to Manuel, and walking on slowly, with his revolver in his hand, called to the two watchers. They did not answer, they did not move. They were seated side by side, but at a few yards one from the other; their hats were drawn down upon the brow, so that Dyke could not see the eyes which seemed to be watching him with such intentness; their attitude was identical, backs slightly bowed, hands clasped about their knees.