“There is nothing to do here,” said another. “We will go to Cuivaca. I, for one, am tired of working for the gringos.”
This met with the unqualified approval of all, and a few moments later the men had saddled their ponies and were galloping away in the direction of sun-baked Cuivaca. They sang now, and were happy, for they were as little boys playing hooky from school—not bad men; but rather irresponsible children.
Once in Cuivaca they swooped down upon the drinking-place, where, with what little money a few of them had left they proceeded to get drunk.
Later in the day an old, dried-up Indian entered. He was hot and dusty from a long ride.
“Hey, Jose!” cried one of the vaqueros from El Orobo Rancho; “you old rascal, what are you doing here?”
Jose looked around upon them. He knew them all—they represented the Mexican contingent of the riders of El Orobo. Jose wondered what they were all doing here in Cuivaca at one time. Even upon a pay day it never had been the rule of El Orobo to allow more than four men at a time to come to town.
“Oh, Jose come to buy coffee and tobacco,” he replied. He looked about searchingly. “Where are the others?” he asked, “—the gringos?”
“They have ridden after Esteban,” explained one of the vaqueros. “He has run off with Senorita Harding.”
Jose raised his eyebrows as though this was all news.
“And Senor Grayson has gone with them?” he asked. “He was very fond of the senorita.”