"I'll ride on to the grove," reflected he, "and hide in it till Antonio comes. They can't track me this night--it will be too dark. The whole sky is becoming clouded--there will be no more moon to-night I can lie hid all day to-morrow, if they don't follow. If they do, why, I can see them far enough off to ride away. My poor Cibolo, how you bleed! Heavens, what a gash! Patience, brave friend! When we halt, your wounds shall be looked to. Yes! to the grove I'll go. They won't suspect me of taking that direction, as it is towards the settlements. Besides they can't trail me in the darkness. Ha! what am I thinking of?--not trail me in the darkness! What! I had forgotten the bloodhound! O God, preserve me! These fiends can follow me were it as dark as pitch! God preserve me!" An anxious expression came over his countenance, and partly from the burden he held in his arms, and partly from the weight of his thoughts, he dropped into an attitude that betokened deep depression. For the first time the hunted outlaw showed symptoms of despair. For a long while he remained with his head leaning forward, and his body bent over the neck of his horse. But he had not yet yielded to despair. All at once he started up, as if some thought, suddenly conceived, had given him hopes. A new resolution seemed to have been taken. "Yes!" he soliloquised, "I shall go to the grove--direct to the grove. Ha! you bloodthirsty yellow-skin, I'll try your boasted skill. We shall see--we shall see. Maybe you'll get your reward, but not that you are counting upon. You have yet something to do before you take the scalp of Carlos the cibolero!" Muttering these words he turned his horse's head, renewed his hold of the dog and the bridle, and set off across the plain. He rode at a rapid pace, and without casting a look behind him. He appeared to be in a hurry, though it could not be from fear of being overtaken. No one was likely to come up with him, so long as he kept on at such a pace. He was silent, except now and then when he addressed some kind word to the dog Cibolo, whose blood ran over his thighs, and down the flanks of the horse. The poor brute was weak, and could no longer have kept his feet. "Patience, old friend!--patience!--you shall soon have rest from this jolting." In less than an hour he had reached the lone grove on the Pecos--the same where he had lately parted with Antonio. Here he halted. It was the goal of his journey. Within that grove he had resolved on passing the remainder of the night, and, if not disturbed, the whole of the following day.