“Once you are away from the pueblo the highway is plainly to be seen. I have had my own horse made ready and will accompany you for a short distance.” “I thank you again, _señor_.” The Indian led out the second horse. Gonzales mounted, and they started out across the plaza, to follow a tiny trail that ran from one side of it between two rows of Indian huts. No word was spoken until they were a mile from the pueblo. Daybreak showed the dusty highway stretching toward the south, twisting like a great serpent across the land. “Here I leave you,” Gonzales said. “I wish you good fortune, _señor_, and am yours to command if there are things you wish done. If the times are indeed turbulent, as has been intimated, perhaps my old trade of pirate will stand me in good stead. _Adios_, caballero! My blessings go with you!” “Having been blessed by both padre and pirate, I can scarcely go wrong,” the caballero replied. He raised his hand in salute, whirled his horse, touched the animal with his spurs and galloped toward the south, sending up great clouds of dust behind him. Gonzales watched him for several minutes, then, shaking his head in perplexity, turned and started back toward Reina de Los Angeles. Now that he was on the highway again, the caballero became alert, watching the trail whenever he topped a hill, hand on pistol-butt where brush edged the road and made an ambush possible. Sixty miles to the south was San Juan Capistrano, and the caballero did not spare his horse. During the morning he saw few men, either red or white. In the distance, at times, he could see the white buildings of some rancho, and grazing herds, and frequently a small orchard. Then, as he neared the mission, he came upon scenes of activity, oxen-drawn carts loaded with grain, carreta, squads of Indians working on the highway as punishment for some trivial offence. The miles flew beneath his horse’s hoofs, and in time he could see the mission building glistening in the sun, throngs of neophytes at work, scores of children playing about the walls. The children scattered at his approach, to stand, half in fear and half in curiosity, some distance away and regard him thoughtfully. He dismounted stiffly, but no man gave him greeting. Leading his horse he walked to the door of the nearest storehouse. A fray came out and faced him. “I am journeying to San Diego de Alcalá, and have need of a fresh mount,” the caballero said. “I will trade or purchase.” “I have no horse for you, _señor_.” “Nonsense! San Juan Capistrano is well known for its breed. At Santa Barbara they told me you were to send them steeds within the month, in exchange for fruit and wine.” “We sell and give horses to whom we will, _señor_, and withhold them from others.”