Phil saw Middleton and Edgeworth talking together very anxiously, and he knew that they were full of apprehensions. It seemed as if Fate itself were playing into the hands of Santa Anna. Occasionally they saw bands of Mexican guerillas hovering on the horizon, but they did not bother with them, keeping straight on for Taylor and Saltillo. The cold still increased, both day and night, and the winds that came from the peaks of the Sierra Madre, now plainly in view, cut to the bone. Phil was glad to take to the wagons for sleep, and to wrap himself in double blankets. It was now well into December, but in two more days they expected to reach Taylor at Saltillo. The last day of the march came, and every heart in the train beat high with expectancy. Even the army officers, Middleton and Edgeworth, trained to suppression of their emotions, could not restrain their eagerness, and they, with Woodfall and others, rode on ahead of the train. Phil, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg were in this little group, but the three were at the rear. "Phil, you were right when you called it a strange looking land," said Bill Breakstone, "and I’m of the opinion that we’re going to see strange things in it. Our military friends look none too happy, and as I’ve eyes and ears of my own I know we’re likely to have lively times after Christmas. Did you know that Christmas was not far away, Phil?" "No, I had forgotten all about it," replied Phil, "but, since you mention it, I remember that it is December. Ah, what is that shining in the sun straight ahead of us, Bill?" He pointed with his finger and showed the faintest red tint under the horizon. "That," replied Breakstone, "is a red tile roof on a house in Saltillo, and you’re the first to see the town. Good eye, my boy. Now, the others have seen it, also! Look how they quicken the steps of their horses!" They broke into a gallop as they came into a shallow, pleasant valley, with green grass, the Northern palms, clear, flowing water, and many a neat stone house with its piazzas and patios. The domes of several fine churches rose into view, and then men in uniforms, rifle in hand, stood across the road. Phil knew their faces; these men were never bred in Mexico. Brown they were with the wind and sun of many days, but the features beneath the brown were those of the Anglo-Saxons, the Americans of the North, his own people. "Halt!" came the sharp order from the commander of the patrol. Middleton replied for them all, but, as Phil rode past, he leaned over and said to the bronzed leader of the patrol: "I’m here, Jim Harrington. I told you in Paris that I was coming to Mexico. It’s a long road, and you’re ahead of me, but I’m here." The leader, a thick-set, powerful man of fifty-five, looked up in amazement. At first he had not recognized Phil under his tan and layer of dust, but now he knew his voice.