"We could not tell the why," observed Don Gaspar.
The two men did not speculate, but ran out to where Yank lay, apparently dead, his arms still bound close to his body by the noose of the riata. Barry cut the rope with his bowie knife, and they rolled him over. They found he still breathed, but that, beside the shock of his violent fall, he had been badly trampled by the horses. After a moment he came to consciousness, but when they attempted to lift him upright, they found that his leg was broken.
At this moment they heard the sound of voices, and, looking up, saw coming from the other direction a band of a dozen men, half of whom were on horseback, and all of whom were armed. This looked serious.
"We got behind the rock," said Don Gaspar, "but we think to ourself our goose is cook."
The newcomers, however, proved to be miners, who had heard the shots, and who now came hurrying up. Evidently the robbers had caught sight or sound of their approach. They were much interested in the state of affairs, examined the horse Don Gaspar had killed, searched for and found the body of the robber Barry had shot. It proved to be a Mexican, well known to them all, and suspected to be a member of Andreas Amijo's celebrated band. They inquired for the dead horse's rider.
"And then, for the first time," said Don Gaspar, "we think of him. He went down with his horse. But now he was gone; and also the horse of Señor Yank. But I think he crawl off in the chaparral; and that the horse of Señor Yank run away with the other horse of the dead man."
And then, I must confess, to our disbelief in the tale, Don Gaspar told us that the miners, their curiosity satisfied, calmly prepared to return to their diggings, quite deaf to all appeals for further help.
"They say to us," narrated Don Gaspar evenly, "that they wash much gold, and that they cannot take the time; and when I tell them our friend is dying, they laugh, and essay that we ought to be glad they come and essave _our_ lives; and that we get along all right."
We did not believe this, though we could see no object in Don Gaspar's deceiving us on the point. Three months had passed while we had been isolated in the valley of the Porcupine; and we had not yet been taught what a difference three months can make in a young country. In that time thousands had landed, and the diggings had filled. All the world had turned to California; its riffraff and offscourings as well as its true men. Australia had unloaded its ex-convicts, so that the term "Sydney duck" had become only too well known. The idyllic time of order and honesty and pleasant living with one's fellow-men was over. But we were unaware of that; and, knowing the average generous-hearted miner, we listened to Don Gaspar with a certain surprised skepticism.