Toward noon the rations of dried meat were passed around, and so was water, sparingly. After that they talked and waited, relieving each other at the opening near the river every half hour, in order that all might be in good condition should an attack occur.
One o’clock came, two, then three, and the little garrison commenced to speculate on the probability of danger having passed. Perhaps the band had gone away; it might be that the savages they had seen in the morning had been recalled to camp in order to resume the march; or, perhaps all were resting, and no further attempt was being made to reconnoitre the surrounding country. In that event they would undoubtedly leave early the next morning. But even after the Majeronas had departed, how long would they have to remain quiet and on the defensive before they dared approach the location of the mine?
“I would almost rather have a fight with them; that is, if we could give them such a taste of modern firearms that they would leave the country,” said Señor Cisneros, rising from the place where he had been resting in the shade.
He approached the opening that faced the thinly grown forest, and gazed over the brushwood that was piled as a protection, in the direction of the trees. They saw him bend forward, as one is apt to do when looking intently at something, and then, turning, he beckoned Ferguson to his side.
“Look,” he whispered. “Do you see that long grass waving over there, under that ironwood tree?”
“Yes. I guess it is wind blown.”
“But there isn’t a particle of wind. Wet your finger and hold your hand up high.”
The American did so. “No,” he said. “There’s no breeze. What makes the grass wave, then?”
“One of those copper-skinned rascals is crawling through it,” said the captain.
“Shall I pick him off?” and Ferguson reached for his rifle.