American fiction; California -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories, American
The yellow moon had gone and the dawn was near when, having arrived
at three great sand hummocks thrown up close to the road, General
Alcantara drew rein. Noiselessly the soldiers laid down their ponchos,
partook of cold coffee and a little food, and stretched themselves for
a brief rest. The horses of the officers and the ammunition animals
were led to one side, where they might crop the grass growing about in
clumps. Alcantara and Pedro Tovar walked apart, conversing. The padre
guided his mule to one side and, out of his saddle, was soon drowsing
as comfortably as the mosquitoes would permit; while Manuelita sought
the women, who were smoking, and squatted on the sand beside them, her
face to the east, her lips moving with soundless words.
Swiftly the day came. A moment of little light, another that was
brighter, and the stars dimmed. Then the unkempt force got to their
feet and moved on--cartridge belts filled and _machetes_ slipped under
them. Above, floating on white-tipped wings, followed a score of the
bald black _samuro_, their curved beaks lowered in horrid watchfulness.
When the sun rose, the company made a second halt, behind a line of
scrub growth. From here General Alcantara, dismounting, went forward
alone on hands and knees. He stopped while yet in the shelter of the
dense underbrush and stood up. To his left lay a town--tile-roofed,
low houses, three rows of them, two rows having their back yards to
the sea. Beyond these was a gently shelving beach strewn with the
unpainted, dugout canoes of fishermen. Still farther, dotted here and
there with a dingy sail, was the blue of the Caribbean, its outermost
edge moving up and down upon the paler blue of the sky. To his right,
some two hundred yards away, was the curving line of a railroad, then
beach and boats, then sea again. And in the very foreground, seated
on the sand, under a sagging telegraph wire, was a man in khaki, fast
asleep, with his gun, muzzle end down, in a land-crab hole.
Alcantara now lowered himself again to creep on, and a moment later the
sentry awoke and found himself a prisoner.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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