Where were the others? They had gone off in directions nearly opposite!

Were they flying from each other?

The zambo had gone back in the same direction whence he had come. He had gone in a very different manner though. After disappearing behind the leafy screen, he had not halted, but rushed on like one terrified beyond the power of controlling himself. The cracking of dead sticks, and the loud rustling among the bushes, told that he was pressing through the grove in headlong flight. These noises had ceased--so, too, the echo of hoofs which for a while came back from the galloping horse of the cibolero.

Where were they now--zambo and cibolero? Had they fled from each other?

It would have seemed so from the relative directions in which they had gone.

It was not so in reality. Whatever desire the zambo might have felt to get away from that spot, his antagonist had no such design. The latter had galloped out of the glade, but not in flight.

He knew the zambo well enough to tell that his courage was now gone.

The sudden loss of his comrade, and under such mysterious circumstances, had terrified the black, and would paralyse him almost beyond the power of resistance. He would think of nothing else but making his escape.

Carlos knew that.

The quick intellect of the latter had taught him whence his enemies had come--from the lower or southern side of the grove. He had, indeed, been loosing for them in that direction, and, while scrutinising the underwood, had given most attention to that edge of the glade lying to the south. He conjectured that they would deem this the safest way to approach him, and his conjectures proved true.

Their horses would be left at some distance off, lest the stroke of their hoofs might alarm him. This, too, was his conjecture, and a just one. Still another, also just, was that the zambo was now making for the horses! This last occurred to Carlos as he saw the other rushing off into the underwood.

Just what the zambo was doing. Seeing his leader fall so mysteriously, he thought no longer of an encounter. Flight was his only impulse--to get back to the horses, mount and ride off, his one purpose. He had hopes that Carlos would not hastily follow--that he might escape under cover of the darkness.

He was mistaken. It was just to defeat this purpose that Carlos had galloped forth. He, too, was resolved to make for the horses!

Once in the open plain, he wheeled to the right, and rode round the grove. On reaching a point where he could command a view of the river he reined up. His object in doing so was to reload his rifle.

He threw the piece into a vertical position, at the same time groping for his powder-horn. To his surprise he could not get his hands upon it, and on looking down he saw that it was gone! The strap by which it had been suspended was no longer over his shoulders. It had been caught upon a branch, and lifted off as he had leaped from the tree!

Annoyed with this misfortune, he was about turning his horse to hurry back to the live-oak, when his eye fell upon a dark figure gliding over the plain, and close in to the fringe of willows by the river. Of course it was the fleeing zambo--there could be no doubt of that.

Carlos hesitated. Should he return for the powder-horn, and then waste time in reloading, the zambo might escape. He would soon reach the horses, and mount. Had it been day Carlos could easily have overtaken him, but not so under the night darkness. Five hundred yards' start would have carried him safe out of sight.

The cibolero was full of anxiety. He had ample reasons to wish that this man should die. Prudence as well as a natural feeling of revenge prompted this wish. The cowardly manner in which these hired ruffians had dogged him had awakened his vengeance. Besides, while either lived, the outlaw knew he would have a dangerous enemy. The zambo must not escape!

It was but for a moment that Carlos hesitated. Should he wait to reload his rifle the other would get off. This reflection decided him. He dropped the piece to the ground, turned his horse's head, and shot rapidly across the plain in the direction of the river. In a dozen seconds he reined up in front of his skulking foe.

The latter, seeing himself cut off from the horses, halted and stood at bay, as if determined to fight. But before Carlos could dismount to close with him, his heart once more gave way; and, breaking through the willows, he plunged into the river.

Carlos had not calculated upon this. He stood for some moments in a state of surprise and dismay. Would the fiend escape him? He had come to the ground. Whether should he mount again or follow on foot?

He was not long irresolute. He chose the latter course, and, rushing through the willows where the other had passed, he paused a moment on the edge of the stream. Just then his enemy emerged upon the opposite bank, and, without a moment's halt, started off in full run across the plain. Again Carlos thought of following on horseback, but the banks were high,--a horse might find it difficult to ford at such a place,-- perhaps impossible. There was no time to be lost in experiments.

"Surely," thought Carlos, "I am swift as he. For a trial then!"

And as he uttered the words he flung himself broad upon the water.

A few strokes carried him across the stream; and, climbing out on the opposite bank, he sprang after his retreating foe.

The zambo had by this time got full two hundred yards in the advance, but before he had run two hundred more, there was not half that distance between them. There was no comparison in their speed. Carlos fairly doubled upon his terrified antagonist, although the latter was doing his utmost. He knew that he was running for his life.

Not ten minutes did the chase continue.

Carlos drew near. The zambo heard his footsteps close behind. He felt it was idle to run any longer. He halted, and once more stood at bay.

In another instant the two were face to face, within ten feet of each other!

Both were armed with large knives--their only weapons--and, dim as the light was, the blades of these could be seen glittering in the air.

The foes scarce waited to breathe themselves. A few angry exclamations passed between them; and then, rushing upon each other, they clutched in earnest conflict!

It was a short conflict. A dozen seconds would have covered its whole duration. For a while, the bodies of the combatants seemed turned around each other, and one of them fell heavily upon the plain. A groan was uttered. It was in the voice of the zambo. It was he who had fallen!

The prostrate form wriggled for a moment over the ground--it half rose and fell again--then writhed for a few seconds longer, and then lay still in death!

The cibolero bent over it to be assured of this. Death was written upon the hideous face. The marks were unmistakeable. The victor no longer doubted; and, turning away from the corpse, he walked back towards the river.

Having regained his rifle and powder-horn, and reloaded his gun, Carlos now proceeded to search for the horses.

These were soon found. A bullet was sent through the head of the bloodhound, and another through that of his more wolf-like companion, and the horses were then untied and set free.

This done, Carlos once more returned to the glade, and, after lifting Cibolo down from his perch, he approached the fire, and gazed for a moment at the corpse of the yellow hunter. The fires were blazing more brightly than ever. These were fed by human flesh!

Turning in disgust from the sight, the cibolero collected his garments, and, once more mounting into the saddle, rode off in the direction of the ravine.

CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

Three days had elapsed from the time that the yellow hunter and his companion had started on their expedition. Those who sent them were beginning to grow impatient for some news of them. They did not allow themselves to doubt of the zeal of their employes,--the reward would secure that,--and scarce did they doubt of their success. The latter seemed to all three--Roblado, Vizcarra, and the Padre--but a consequence of the former. Still they were impatient for some report from the hunters--if not of the actual capture, at least that the outlaw had been seen, or that they were upon his trail.

On reflection, however, both Padre and officers saw that it would not be likely they should have any report before the hunters themselves came back, either with or without their captive.

"No doubt," suggested the monk, "they are after him every hour, and we shall hear nothing of them until they have laid hands upon the heretic rascal."

What a startling piece of news it was to this charming trio, when a _hatero_ brought the information to the settlement that he had seen two dead bodies upon the plain, which he recognised as those of the Mission hunters--Manuel and Pepe.

His report was that he had seen them near a grove upon the Pecos,--that they were torn by the wolves and vultures--but that what still remained of their dress and equipments enabled him to make out who they were--for the hatero had chanced to know these men personally. He was sure they were the mulatto and Zambo, the hunters of the mission.

At first this "mysterious murder," as it was termed, could not be explained--except upon the supposition that the "Indios bravos" had done it. The people knew nothing of the duty upon which the hunters had been lately employed. Both were well enough known, though but little notice was taken of their movements, which lay generally beyond the observation of the citizen community. It was supposed they had been out upon one of their usual hunts, and had fallen in with a roving band of savages.

A party of dragoons, guided by the hatero, proceeded to the grove; and these returned with a very different version of the story.

They had ascertained beyond a doubt that both the hunters had been killed, not by Indian arrows, but by the weapons of a white man.

Furthermore, their horses had been left, while their dogs had been killed--the skeletons of the latter were found lying upon the bank of the river.

It could not have been Indians, then. They would have carried off the animals, both dogs and horses, and, moreover, would have stripped the dead of their equipments, which were of some value. Indians? No.

There was not much difficulty in deciding who had committed this murder.

Where the skeletons of the dogs were found the ground was soft, and there were hoof-tracks that did not belong to the horses of the hunters.

These were recognised by several. They were the tracks of the well-known horse of Carlos the cibolero.