The broad trail of the robbers led up the mountain, skirted the Great Slide and into the pass toward the valley of Calaveras where the merienda had been in late spring. Stanislaus, little apprehensive of immediate pursuit, had allowed his fighting men to crowd into the defile and mix with those carrying the neophyte girls, leaving the rear of his march unguarded. Discipline thus relaxed the riflemen passed the time bandying words with the others. "Ha! Bartolo," from a fighting man, "the damsel with thee would better be in the saddle, and thou in her arms. Santa Cruz! if she snatches another handful of thy mop thou wilt be as bald as a buckeye." The "damsel" was none other than Pepita, who vigorously pulled her captor's hair and beat his face whenever opportunity offered. "She's pretty as a yearling fawn," parried Bartolo. "Art sweet-tempered and playful, little one? No?" The "little one" replied by so energetically pushing her foot into the pit of Bartolo's stomach that he was nearly overbalanced. "Ha! ha!" jeered the first speaker, "pass her to me, Bartolo. Otherwise it's plain who'll pound the corn and bake the tortillas in thy wickiup." "A devil bite thee, Naciso," growled Bartolo. "Quit, thou angel," to Pepita, "or thou wilt find that in a matter of blows I can give as well as take." At the eastern end of the pass the sides became sheer declivities; while the roadway, a sharp incline, so narrowed that a part of Stanislaus's riflemen were forced to lead the procession, the remainder to go to the rear, as a wet sponge squeezed in the middle drips at both ends. "Halt!" like a thunder-bolt in clear sky, came a stentorian shout from the western outlet. It was Enrico, and ranged by his side and Carmelita Mendoza's were three hundred men whose carbines were gleaming in the afternoon sun. Less than four hours elapsed since noon, and Stanislaus had calculated that no rescuing party could be organized before the following day. He was astounded. Morando, he knew, had gone to Monterey with Señor Mendoza. His scouts had brought the word shortly before the attack at the Mission. The pursuers quickly thinned their line and stretched across the mouth of the pass. The chief, ever quick-witted, formulated a plan on the moment--to gain time by parleying, meanwhile surreptitiously to recall his riflemen to the front, thus, with his fighters together, hold the ground till night when he would escape under cover of dark. So: "Under whose leadership come you?" he questioned. "Captain Morando's?" There was no reply. He repeated: "Who's your leader, I say? Captain Morando?" his eyes searching the ranks of the newcomers. Silently men began filtering through the press back to Stanislaus's side, in accordance with his low-toned, hurriedly given order.