There they lie, all stark and staring--men, mules, and horses--all but him." The smoke has thinned off, only a thin film still wafting about the waggons, whose canvas tilts, now consumed, expose their contents--some of them badly burnt, some but slightly scorched.

The freebooters have commenced to drag out boxes and bales, their chief by a stern command having restrained them from returning to take the scalps of the slain.
All has been the work of only a few moments--less than ten minutes of time--for it is scarce so much since Wilder and Hamersley, stealing out between the wheels, rode off under cover of the cloud.
By this he with the beard, speaking Spanish, has ceased to scrutinise the corpses, and stands facing his inferior, his countenance showing an air of puzzled disappointment, as proclaimed by his repeated speeches.
Once again he gives speech to his perplexity, exclaiming: "_Demonios_! I don't understand it.

Is it possible that any of them can have got away ?" As he puts the question there comes a shout from outside, seeming to answer it.

For it is a cry half in lamentation--a sort of wail, altogether unlike the charging war-whoop of the Comanches.

Acquainted with their signals, he knows that the one he has heard tells of an enemy trying to escape.
Hurrying outside the corral, he sees two mounted men, nearly a mile off, making in the direction of the cliffs.