“First came the Indian outbreak a year ago, when all the good animals were either killed or run off, and recently came a requisition from his excellency. We have good horses coming, _señor_, from San Juan Capistrano in exchange for other commodities, but they will not arrive for another month. Believe me, _señor_, I am sorry! If your business is urgent----” “I must depart within an hour, and I must have a mount of some kind--the best to be obtained.” “Ask for food, or gold, or a score of Indian guides! But when it comes to a good horse----” There was a sudden commotion at the door, where the soldiers had been standing, jesting with the sergeant over his recent defeat. To the ears of the ensign and his guest came the sound of tinkling bells, and they heard the loud laughter of the troopers. “By the good saint--another stranger!” Cassara exclaimed. “Are all the grandees of Spain abroad this day?” The ensign and the caballero arose and walked across to the door. Down El Camino Real they saw approaching a man astride a mule. He was richly dressed. The mule had a string of bells around its neck. The rider wore pistol and sword, and he held a guitar under one arm. He waved at the men crowded about the doorway, then struck the strings of the instrument and began to sing. “There comes your mount, _señor_,” the ensign said, laughing. “Very true!” the caballero replied; and there was no merriment in his face as he said it. He folded his arms and stood beside the ensign in the doorway, waiting. The song of the latest arrival reached an end as the mule came to a stop before them. The rider swung his guitar behind his back, dismounted, removed his sombrero and bowed to the ground. “Greetings!” he called. “I crave hospitality, food and drink for both myself and beast, refreshment after my long and dusty journey and my bad fright.” “Fright?” questioned the ensign. “Even so, _señor_. A distance of ten miles from here I rounded a curve in the highway to come upon dead men, a dead mule and a dead horse. It must have been a pretty battle there! I haven’t seen as much blood in a score of moons. Indians and Mexicans--filthy bandits, I took them to be! I counted six, then covered my eyes with my hands and fled. Blood always did upset me. But it must have been a rare battle!” Sergeant Carlos Cassara looked back at the caballero with wide and glistening eyes, his anger at his recent defeat somewhat assuaged. “By the good saint!” he swore. “My gentlemanly pedestrian of the highway must have been telling me the truth.” He called a neophyte servant to take the mule to the adobe stable in the rear of the barracks, while the new-comer followed the ensign inside, followed in turn by the sergeant and the soldiers. “You command here?” the mule’s owner asked the ensign. “At present. My lieutenant is visiting at a rancho near by.” “And you are called----?” “Ensign Sanchez, _señor_. May I ask your name in turn?”