“We must meet them,” said David, upon whom the General’s “pistol” had not failed to score.
“Wait a moment! As Miranda would say, these peons are canaille and—there is no room for a meeting.”
Both men laughed. Nevertheless, in spite of the humor of the situation, it had more than the usual peril incident to travel on the Bogota trail to be comfortable.
“Two men against a regiment!” chuckled Herran.
“But they are not after us,” argued David.
“They are after the Yankees—and you are a Yankee. Well, Senor, what shall we do?”
“You are in command, Senor General.”
“Caramba! Then, let us march! We can’t jump down those rocks, the swamp is even worse—and we won’t retreat before a lot of peons. Forward, Senor! We can at least use pistols if we need to!”
With which comforting assurance Herran handed one of his case bottles to David. This the latter retained, first joining his comrade in a final “salute,” declaring all the while that this kind of exercise had been unknown to him for years—a statement received by General Herran with the skepticism it deserved. The two horses were then brought into line and, with touch of whip and spur, commenced a scramble up the trail, at the top of which the front ranks of the peons were just visible.