After the victory won against Dupin’s Contra Guerrillas [so the chronicle goes on], the Missourians found their ally to be none other than that picturesque buccaneer of the Sierras, Don Rodrigo, wild as a prairie wolf, handsome as Lucifer; and their captives to be not the Emperor and suite but two beautiful women....
When the prisoners had been exchanged–i. e., the two fair girls restored to Dupin, and Rodrigo freed–and Rodrigo had hurried away to gather his scattered vagabonds from among the foothills, the Missourians realized their predicament. That day they had fought the Empire. Then they had turned and fought the Republic in the person of the guerrilla chief, Rodrigo Galán. They had rebelled against the rebels, so were doubly rebel, doubly outlawed. Ye gods, it was bizarre! And as morning dawned on them trailing along a 327 dreary inferno gorge of the Sierra Gorda, they blinked at each other ruefully. Poor waifs, they had lost their native country. And now, one rainy morning, they found they had lost an adopted one. But each man looked into a face likewise so rueful that his own broke into a grin.
“We’ll just start a new country,” cried Driscoll abruptly.
His voice sounded strange and very unlike him, but the inspiration was characteristic of the man, and true to the old irrepressible Storm Centre they had known. Hunted outlaws, they too were in the mood for any desperate venture. Spontaneous as wildfire, they seconded this one ere they had asked a question. They never did ask “How?”
“A new country,” roared Tall Mose, “but where?”
“And when?” Old Brothers and Sisters inquired gently.
“We’ll start right after breakfast,” their intrepid leader replied. “And right here in Mexico. It’s anybody’s country yet, and we might as well slice off a little private republic for ourselves.”
“And won’t we fight, by Jiminy!” drawled Cal Grinders, with Ozarkian deliberation.
“And it don’t matter whom we fight,” Marmaduke added. “Let ’em show themselves, Slim Max or Don Benito. We’ll meet all comers.”