He threw the cord around his neck and swung the instrument to his back, then walked briskly to the door. The others crowded after him, Sergeant Cassara grinning from ear to ear as he watched the stormy face of the man who had lost the mule. The caballero put his own heavy saddle and bridle on the beast and mounted. Once more he removed his sombrero and bowed to them; and then he turned the mule’s head, swung the guitar before him, struck a chord, began to sing, and started off down the slope toward El Camino Real. Standing in the doorway, they watched until the beast’s hoofs began kicking up clouds of the red dust. Once the caballero waved his hat at them, then looked back at the presidio no more. He passed the mission at a trot, failing to greet a fray who stood beside the wall. He made a turning where trees shut Santa Barbara from his view, and then he raked the beast’s sides with his spurs and urged it into a run. Mile after mile he travelled beneath the burning sun, half choked with the dust, his sombrero pulled low down over his eyes, always alert where there was a chance for ambush, now and then stopping at the crest of a hill to look far ahead on the highway. Evening came, and he stopped beside a creek to drink and wash the dust from his face and hands, and to water the mule. And then he went on through the darkness, having difficulty at times keeping to the highway, now and then stopping to listen as if for pursuit. The moon rose, and he urged the mule to greater speed. He approached San Buenaventura, the dogs howling when they caught the sound of the mule’s hoofs. An Indian hailed him, but he did not stop. On and on through the night he rode, mile after mile. Sixty miles from San Buenaventura to San Fernando mission--a good day’s journey--and he was determined to make it in half the time! Day came, and the sun beat down into the valley, merciless alike to man and beast. He saw a skulking gentile frequently, but always at a distance, and he knew there was less possibility of bandits here. His mule was fagged and seemed insensible to the spurs. The dust had caked on the man’s face, his eyes were swollen, and he suffered from thirst. Now the highway followed a dry watercourse, and now it ran along the rim of a hill. On the crests he stopped the mule and looked ahead, but never behind. It was interruption he feared now, not pursuit. He passed a flock of sheep being driven toward the north, and the neophytes herding them looked at him in astonishment when he refused to answer their respectful salutations. Once more he stopped at a creek to bathe his eyes and drink, allowing his beast to have but a small amount of water and to nibble a few minutes at the green growth along the bank.