With an exclamation of surprise, Rodman drew his pony back on its flanks. For a moment, he leaned in his saddle, scrutinizing the men who had halted him. There was, of course, no distinction of uniforms, but he reasoned that no government troops would be guarding that road, because, as far as the government knew, there was no war. He leaned over and whispered:
“Vegas y Libertad.”
The sergeant in command saluted with a grave smile, and drew his men aside, as the two horsemen rode on.
“Looks like it’s getting close,” commented Rodman shortly. “We’d better hurry.”
Where the old market-place stands at the junction of the Calle Bolivar with a lesser street, Rodman again drew down his pony, and his cheeks paled to the temples. From the center of the city came the sudden staccato rattle of musketry. The plotter threw his eyes up to the top of San Francisco, visible above the roofs, but the summit of San Francisco still slept the sleep of quiet centuries. Then, again, came the clatter from the center of the town, and again the sharp rattle of rifle fire ripped the air. There was heavy fighting somewhere on ahead.
“Good God!” breathed the thin man. “What does it mean?”
The two ponies stood in the narrow street, and the air began to grow heavier with the noise of volleys, yet the hill was silent.
Rodman rattled his reins on the pony’s neck, and rode apathetically forward. Something had gone amiss! His dreams were crumbling. At the next corner, they drew to one side. A company of troops swept by on the double-quick. They had been in action. Their faces streamed with sweat, and many were bleeding. A few wounded men were being carried by their comrades. Rodman recognized Capitan Morino, and shouted desperately; but the officer shook his head wildly, and went on.
Then, they saw a group of officers at the door of a crude café. Among them, Rodman recognized Colonel Martiñez, of Vegas’ staff, and Colonel Murphy of the Foreign Legion, yet they stood here idle, and their faces told the story of defeat. The filibuster hurled himself from the saddle, and pushed his way to the group, followed by Saxon.
“What does it mean, Murphy?” he demanded, breathlessly. “What in all hell can it mean?”