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."