Don Pedro Zelaya and his peons were on a pinnacle of one of the high hills which skirt the eastern side of San Francisco harbor. Away at the south somewhere was the hacienda of Mendoza. On the roof of Mendoza's hacienda house by night and by day watchers scanned the north horizon for fire or smoke signals telling that the British fleet had sailed, and announcing, in the devious ways known to such signal-makers, the direction the ships had taken, together with other apt information. "Caramba! Caramba!" stormed little Zelaya. "Bring more green leaves. Give over using that turpentine now. Perhaps we'll get some smoke after all." The keen air breathed through the heaping leaves with a bellowslike sound. The fierce heat exuded the oil from the fiber and the flames roared with added vigor. "Bring water!" commanded Zelaya. "We must have a signal-smoke here, or it means a wild dash on horseback to Mission San José. Bring water, I say." "There is no water within a league, Señor Zelaya. Besides, the high wind would blow the smoke along the mountain top, not letting it form a column that would reach upward." The excitable Zelaya ran to his horse tied to some brush near by. Taking his canteen from the saddle he poured the contents, a quart or so of water, on the blazing fire. There was a splutter, a sizzle, and the leaves burned as furiously as before. The sun was just peeping over the eastern horizon. Zelaya looked intently, listening expectantly. When the wind lulled for a moment there came swelling over the hills the reenforced bellowings from tens of thousands of cattle throats. "Ah! the herds are at last coming in from the San Joaquin bottoms. Well, we have other fish to fry besides thinking of that. Say! you, Anselmo, and you, Francisco, are you sure you caught all the signals right? No danger of mistake? Are you sure?" The small black eyes of the peons glittered. "We wish we were as sure of heaven, Señor Zelaya. Our men saw the signal fire on the high mountains east of San José last night; saw the answer on Tamalpais. This morning at daybreak they saw the great white birds swim out in the direction of the south wind. Our young master, Roberto Morago, said that only cannon and heaps of cannon balls were on the decks. He saw it through his field glass from his station on the flank of Mount Diablo. We have brought you his word, Señor Zelaya, and our telling is true. It's no use; we cannot send a smoke signal in this wind." Zelaya was already astride his mount. "It means a couple of hours' delay," he muttered, "a couple of hours which we can in no way afford." He rode his horse furiously. The wind sang in his ears as he swept along. His face was set and hard, his eyes narrowing to burning sparks.