To play the part of spies in such a country as this was not easy, for the Americans were easily distinguished from the natives. Had Ben and the major spoken Spanish fluently, they might have passed for Spaniards, as each was tanned from constant exposure to the strong sun. But this could not be, and so they had to go ahead and trust to luck to see them through with their dangerous errand.
At length they felt that they must be close to the enemy’s picket line, and paused to consider the situation. Before them was a gentle slope, terminating at a small but deep stream which flowed into the Rio Grande River.
“I think some of the rebels are over there,” said the major, pointing to a hill, from the top of which could be seen a faint glow. “There is certainly a camp-fire back there.”
“There is a house just below us,” returned Ben. “Or is it a mill?”
“A mill most likely. They wouldn’t build an ordinary dwelling right at the water’s edge.”
“Perhaps the rebels are using the mill as a sort of headquarters. What do you say if we investigate?”
The major agreed, and they began to pick their way along the stream. Soon they reached a rude bridge, and were on the point of crossing, when a sharp cry rang out from the building they were approaching.
“Hullo, that’s a woman’s voice!” exclaimed Ben. “Somebody is in trouble.”
“Help! thief! murderer!” came in Spanish. “Oh, help, for the love of kind Heaven, help!”