We dined in the ancient kitchen of the hacienda, sitting on stools around a packing box. The ceiling was a rich, greasy brown, from the smoke of generations of meals. One entire end of the room was taken up by immense adobe stoves, ovens, and fireplaces, with four or five ancient crones bending over them, stirring pots and turning _tortillas_. The fire was our only light, flickering strangely over the old women; lighting up the black wall, up which the smoke fled, to wreathe around the ceiling and finally pour from the window. There were Colonel Petronilo, his mistress, a strangely beautiful peasant woman with a pock-marked face, who always seemed to be laughing to herself about something; Don Tomas, Luis Martinez, Colonel Redondo, Major Salazar, Nicanor, and I. The Colonel’s mistress seemed uncomfortable at the table; for a Mexican peasant woman is a servant in her house. But Don Petronilo always treated her as if she were a great lady. Redondo had just been telling me about the girl he was going to marry. He showed me her picture. She was even then on her way to Chihuahua to get her wedding dress. "As soon as we take Torreon," he said. "_Oiga, señor_!" Salazar touched me on the arm. "I have found out who you are. You are an agent of American business men who have vast interests in Mexico. I know all about American business. You are an agent of the trusts. You come down here to spy upon the movement of our troops, and then you will secretly send them word. Is it not true?" "How could I secretly send anybody any word from here?" I asked. "We’re four days’ hard ride from a telegraph line." "Ah, _I_ know," he grinned cunningly, wabbling a finger at me. "I know many things; I have much in the head." He was standing up now. The Major suffered badly from gout; his legs were wrapped in yards and yards of woolen bandages, which made them look like _tamales_. "I know _all_ about business. I have studied much in my youth. These American trusts are invading Mexico to rob the Mexican people——" "You’re mistaken, Major," interrupted Don Petronilo sharply. "This señor is my friend and my guest." "Listen, _mi Coronel_," Salazar burst out with unexpected violence. "This señor is a spy. All Americans are Porfiristas and Huertistas. Take this warning before it is too late. I have much in the head. I am a very smart man. Take this Gringo out and shoot him—at once. Or you will regret it." A clamor of voices burst out all together from the others, but it was interrupted by another sound—a shot, and then another, and men shouting. Came a trooper running. "Mutiny in the ranks!" he cried. "They won’t obey orders!" "Who won’t?" snapped Don Petronilo. "The _gente_ of Salazar!" "Bad people!" exclaimed Nicanor as we ran. "They were _colorados_ captured when we took Torreon. Joined us so we wouldn’t kill ’em. Ordered out tonight to guard the Puerta!" "Till to-morrow," said Salazar at this point, "I’m going to bed!"