The cavalcade had hardly paused, and it now went on up the long, steep slope to the right. Not many minutes later, it was on high enough ground to look down upon the road which had been taken by Zuroaga. Ned was not looking in that direction, but at some snow-capped mountains in the distance, northward, and he was saying to himself:
“So that is the Sierra Madre, is it? This country has more and higher mountains in it— Hullo! What’s that? Is she hurt?”
His change of utterance into an anxious exclamation was produced by a piercing scream from the carriage, and that was followed by the excited voice of Señora Tassara calling out:
“Husband! The general is attacked! Look! Hear the firing!”
“O father! Can we not help him?” gasped Señorita Felicia.
Her mother was holding to her eyes with trembling hands what Ned took for an opera-glass, and he wished that he had one, although he could make out that something like a skirmish was taking place on the other road. It was too far to more than barely catch the dull reports of what seemed to be a number of rapidly fired pistol-shots.
“They are fighting!” he exclaimed. “I wish I was there to help him! He may need more men. I could shoot!”
Whether he could or not, he was almost unconsciously unbuckling the holster of one of his horse-pistols, when the señora spoke again.
“Santa Maria!” she exclaimed. “The dear general! They are too many for him. Madre de Dios! Our good friend will be killed!”
“Give me the glass, my dear,” said her husband. “Your hands are not steady enough. I will tell you how it is.”