We looked back to see the coach pulled to a stop, and Patricio waving to us. Two of the mules had given out, raw from the traces, and tottering with the fatigue of the last two days. The Tropa scattered to look for mules. Soon they came back, driving two great beautiful animals that had never seen harness. No sooner had they smelled the coach than they made a desperate break for freedom. And now the Tropa instantly went back to their native profession—they became _vaqueros_. It was a pretty sight, the rope-coils swinging in the air, the sudden snake-like shoot of the loops, the little horses bracing themselves against the shock of the running mule. Those mules were demons. Time after time they broke the _riatas_; twice they overturned horse and rider. Pablo came to the rescue. He got on Sabas’s horse, drove in the spurs, and went after one mule. In three minutes he had roped him by the leg, thrown him, and tied him. Then he took the second with equal dispatch. It was not for nothing that Pablo was Lieutenant-Colonel at twenty-six. Not only could he fight better than his men, but he could ride better, rope better, shoot better, chop wood better, and dance better. The mules’ legs were tied, and they were dragged with ropes to the coach, where the harness was slipped on them in spite of their frantic struggles. When all was ready, Patricio got on the box, seized the whip, and told us to cut away. The wild animals scrambled to their feet, bucking and squealing. Above the uproar came the crack of the heavy whip, and Patricio’s bellow: "_Andale! Ujos de la Gran’ Ch——!_" and they jerked forward, running, the big coach taking the arroyos like an express train. Soon it vanished behind its own pall of dust, and appeared hours afterward, crawling up the side of a great hill, miles away.... Panchito was eleven years old, already a trooper with a rifle too heavy for him, and a horse that they had to lift him on. His _compadre_ was Victoriano, a veteran of fourteen. Seven others of the Tropa were under seventeen. And there was a sullen, Indian-faced woman, riding side-saddle, who wore two cartridge-belts. She rode with the _hombres_—slept with them in the cuartels. "Why are you fighting?" I asked her. She jerked her head toward the fierce figure of Julian Reyes. "Because he is," she answered. "He who stands under a good tree is sheltered by a good shade." "A good rooster will crow in any chicken-coop," capped Isidro. "A parrot is green all over," chimed in someone else. "Faces we see, but hearts we do not comprehend," said José, sentimentally. At noon we roped a steer, and cut his throat. And because there was no time to build a fire, we ripped the meat from the carcase and ate it raw. "_Oiga_, meester," shouted José. "Do the United States soldiers eat raw meat?" I said I didn’t think they did. "It is good for the _hombres_. In the campaign we have no time for anything but _carne crudo_. It makes us brave."