“Hola! friend José,” cried Fray Augustin in a thick guttural voice, “pensaba yo—I was thinking that it was very nearly this time three years ago when those 'malditos Americanos' came by here and ran off with so many of our cavallada.”
“True, reverend father,” answered the administrador, “just three years ago, all but fifteen days: I remember it well. Malditos sean—curse them!”
“How many did we kill, José?”
“Quizas mōōchos—a great many, I dare say. But they did not fight fairly—charged right upon us, and gave us no time to do any thing. They don't know how to fight, these Mericanos; come right at you, before you can swing a lasso, hallooing like Indios Bravos.”
“But, José, how many did they leave dead on the field?”
“Not one.”
“And we?”
“Valgame Dios! thirteen dead, and many more wounded.”
“That's it! Now if these savages come again (and the Chemeguaba, who came in yesterday, says he saw a large trail), we must fight adentro—within—outside is no go; for as you very properly say, José, these Americans don't know how to fight, and kill us before—before we can kill them! Vaya!”