“Señores, señores mios,” he whined, “you do not know yet, you do not know, that if Maximilian is not taken––”
“Ah, here now,” growled Clay of Carroll, “you needn’t worry so much. He’ll be driven back into the town all right, I reckon.”
“And what then, señor? No, you do not know. Your general, señores–General Escobedo–has orders to–to raise the siege.”
“What?”
“Si señor, to raise the siege! The orders are from San Luis, from the Señor Presidente there. He–he thinks the siege has lasted long enough.”
“Precisamente. Yes, it would look like–defeat. It would, if–you don’t capture Maximilian by daybreak.”
Meagre Shanks brought his boot soles wrathfully to the ground, kicking the stool back of him. His whole mien exuded a newspaper man’s contempt for faking. “Now then, young fellow,” and he shook a long finger at the ancient Mexican, “here you know all that Maximilian knows. And here again you know all that the Presidente knows. All right, s’pose you just tell us now more or less about how mighty little you do know?”
“It’s–it’s like a message from El Chaparrito,” the parson demurred.
“From Shorty?” Daniel almost roared. “Oh come, Clem, don’t you go to mixing up the unseen and all-seeing guardian of the República with this dried-up, wild-eyed specimen of a dried-up–of, of an old rascal. No one ever hears from El Chaparrito ’less there’s a crisis on, and is there one on now? You know there ain’t. If there was, someone would be hearing from Shorty–Driscoll there, prob’bly. But there ain’t. Shucks, this old codger is only plum’ daft. Aren’t you now”–he appealed querulously to Murguía, “aren’t you just crazy–say?”