“Hist, señores! Look behind!” he said.
Turning half round in our saddles and peering intently into the gloom we could just make out what seemed like a body of horsemen riding swiftly after us.
“Probably a belated foraging party returning to camp,” said Carmen. “Deucedly awkward, though! But they have, perhaps, no desire to overtake us. Let us go on just fast enough to keep them at a respectful distance.”
But it very soon became evident that the foraging party—if it were a foraging party—did desire to overtake us. They put on more speed; so did we. Then came loud shouts of “Halte!” These producing no effect, several pistol shots were fired.
“Dios mio!” said Carmen; “they will rouse the camp, and the road will be barred. Look here, Fortescue; about two miles farther on is an open glade which we have to cross, and which the fellows must also cross if they either meet or intercept us. The trail to the left leads to the llanos. It runs between high banks, and is so narrow that one resolute man may stop a dozen. If any of the gauchos get there before us we are lost. Your horse is the fleetest. Ride as for your life and hold it till we come.”
Before the words were well out of Carmen’s mouth, I let Pizarro go. He went like the wind. In six minutes I had reached my point and taken post in the throat of the pass, well in the shade. And I was none too soon, for, almost at the same instant, three llaneros dashed into the clearing, and then, as if uncertain what to do next, pulled up short.
“Whereabout was it? What trail shall we take?” asked one.
“This” (pointing to the road I had just quitted).
“Don’t you hear the shouts?—and there goes another pistol shot!”
“Better divide,” said another. “I will stay here and watch. You, José, go forward, and you, Sanchez, reconnoitre the llanos trail.”