“I s’pose I must show his skelp,” thought Texas, “or they won’t hand over the dust.”

At last there was a sound; he had set his ambush just right; there were voices in the distance; then hoofs in the grass.  Next he saw something; it was a man on a mule; yes, and it was the right man.

He raised his cocked rifle and aimed, sighting the head, three rods away.  Suddenly his horse whinnied, and then the mule of the other reared; but the bullet had already sped.  Down went Thurstane in the darkness, while, with an Apache yell, Texas Smith burst from his ambush and charged upon the greasers.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

The chase after the spare mules carried Texas Smith several miles from the scene of the ambush, so that when he at last caught the frightened beasts, he decided not to go back and cut Thurstane’s throat, but to set off at once westward and put himself by morning well on the road to California.

Meanwhile, the two muleteers continued their flight at full gallop, and eventually plunged into camp with a breathless story to the effect that Apaches had attacked them, captured the spare mules, and killed the lieutenant.  Coronado, no more able to sleep than Satan, was the first to hear their tale.

“Apaches!” he said, surprised and incredulous.  Then, guessing at what had happened, he immediately added, “Those devils again!  We must push on, the moment we can see.”

Apaches!  It was a capital idea.  He had an excuse now for hurrying away from a spot which he had stained with murder.  If any one demanded that Thurstane’s body should be sought for, or that those incumbrances Glover and Sweeny should be rescued, he could respond, Apaches!  Apaches!  He gave orders to commence preparations for moving at the first dawn.

He expected and feared that Clara would oppose the advance in some trying way.  But one of the fugitives relieved him by blurting out the death of Thurstane, and sending her into spasms of alternate hysterics and fainting which lasted for hours.  Lying in a wagon, her head in the lap of Mrs. Stanley, a sick, very sick, dangerously sick girl, she was jolted along as easily as a corpse.

Coronado rode almost constantly beside her wagon, inquiring about her every few minutes, his face changing with contradictory emotions, wishing she would die and hoping she would live, loving and hating her in the same breath.  Whenever she came to herself and recognized him, she put out her hands and implored, “Oh, Coronado, take me back there!”

“Apaches!” growled Coronado, and spurred away repeating his lie to himself, “Apaches!  Apaches!”

Then he checked his horse and rode anew to her side, hoping that he might be able to reason with her.

“Oh, take me back!” was all the response he could obtain.  “Take me back and let me die there.”

“Would you have us all die?” he shouted—­“like Pepita!”