Chapter Eight.
Signs of Suspicion.
Half an hour later, the little caravan was in motion, and, for the first time the preparations were delightfully easy. Eager to be of some service, and to try to make up for what he had done, Cyril began to help to load the mules, and above all, helped the colonel.
For the latter was trying hard to make the guide understand that he would like to pass through the patch of forest below them, before they ascended the mountain path visible away to their left; and the man stared at him in the most blank way possible, and then kept on pointing to a couple of great fagots which lay tightly bound upon one of the mules’ backs.
“It’s all right, sir; let me speak to him,” cried Cyril eagerly. “He thinks you keep on telling him you want wood for the next fire we make, and he says he has got plenty.” Then, turning to the guide, he rapidly said a few words in the rough dialect of Indian and Spanish, with the result that the man gave the colonel a sharp look, and then nodded his head, and went off with the leading mule.
Perry gave his father an eager look, and the colonel, who was smiling with satisfaction at the ease with which a difficulty had been smoothed away, frowned.
“Oh yes, it’s very nice,” he said; “but I cannot afford to have an intelligent interpreter on such terms as these, Master Perry. There, get on; I said I would not refer to the trouble any more.—Hi! Cyril, my lad, you’d better ride that black mule.”
“Ride—the mule, sir?” said the boy hesitatingly.
“Yes; your feet are cut and sore. Rest till they are better.”