"Eh? what does Joe say? Oh, well, Nero fiddled while Rome was burning, and we didn't see why we shouldn't be just as cruel as Nero if we liked. Anyhow——"
"A letter for you, Colonel!" said the hall porter, approaching.
The Colonel arose, and producing his pince-nez glasses, drew near the light that streamed from the hotel door, to glance through the papers contained in the envelope.
"I guess it's only to say that some of your old ranch houses have been burnt by the Apaches, or that your old cows have got 'black-leg' or something," remarked Joe grimly.
"A judgment, likely, for fiddling when the Pirates was a-catching it so," suggested Bill, with a grin.
"That's it," chuckled Joe; "that's it, no doubt!"
"Navajo, can you make corn bread?" asked the Colonel, returning to his seat.
"Corn bread, Colonel! I can make it so a dog can't eat it."
"You can, eh? Well, that settles it. You shall come, then. Go away up to Holgate's stables, and tell them to have the waggon and team ready to-morrow at midday—you see yourself that it is properly greased—and see that three days' feed of corn are put in for the horses, too. I am going down into Mexico."
"And perhaps you won't mind telling us where we come in, in all this? What is going to happen to us?" inquired Joe, with some asperity.