“Is the world coming to an end, that gentlemen of quality walk the highway and pack their belongings?” the sergeant cried. “’Tis a saddle he bears,” the corporal added. “I can see the sun flashing from the silver on it. This is a peculiar thing. Perhaps he has met with disaster, is wounded and we should give him aid.” “I suppose, according to orders, some of us should go out in this devil’s blaze and accost him,” the sergeant returned. “A caballero who walks the highway and packs his saddle surely is a suspicious personage. However, we’ll wait for a time. If he is wounded, he cannot escape--and he must pass the presidio. Send a man to awaken the ensign, corporal. ’Tis rare to think we have legitimate excuse for waking him--he loves his sleep too well, that pretty officer of ours!” “Your caballero is coming here!” the corporal announced. “So he is! He turns off the main highway! A gentlemanly caballero, at least, to save us a journey out in the sun. Mind your manners, now! Do not make him suspicious. Do you attend to your own business, all of you, and allow me to do the talking. But awaken the ensign, just the same!” The neophyte had entered the barracks-room again and was refilling the wine cups, and from the cupboard he carried a fresh one to the table for the approaching stranger. His lips were set tightly over his teeth because of the pain the lashing had caused, but his eyes were flashing with something besides anger. Sergeant Cassara turned quickly and observed the Indian’s manner. “Um!” the sergeant grunted. “A man finds himself torn between a desire to do his duty and a desire to let things take their course and enjoy the fighting that surely will follow. Neophyte! Get you some food ready! From the manner in which this man staggers through the dust, he comes to us with an empty belly.” Again the Indian hurried to the rear room. The soldiers crowded around the doorway in the shade. The stranger was within fifty yards of them now. They saw that he stooped beneath the weight of the heavy saddle, and that a bridle heavily chased with silver hung over one of his arms. A sword swung at his side; a pistol was at his hip. His clothing was covered with red dust, but they could see that it was rich. His sombrero clung to one side of his head, as if about to fall off. His hair was dark and hung in clusters of curls. “’Tis a pretty young gentleman!” Sergeant Cassara snorted. “Now we shall hear a tearful tale of the highway, I suppose, of how some five thousand bandits set upon him and how he slew half and frightened the remainder so that they fled, making his escape and bringing away loot! Saint Barbara, forgive me if I think for an instant that such a beau-looking being could be a conspirator!”