There was a wonderfully attractive sound in that title—The Silver Canyon, and it acted like magic on the men of English blood, who, though they had taken to the dress, and were burned by the sun almost to the complexion of the Spanish-Americans amongst whom they dwelt, had still all the enterprise and love of adventure of their people, and were ready enough to go.
Not so the Mexicans. There was a rich silver mine out in the plains? Well, let it be there; they could enjoy life without it, and they were not going to rob themselves of the comfort of basking in the sun and idling and sauntering in the evenings. Besides, there were the Indians, and they might have to fight, a duty they left to the little army kept up by the republic. The lancers had been raised on purpose to combat with the Indians. Let them do it. They, the Mexican gentlemen, preferred their cigáritos, and to see a bolero danced to a couple of twanging guitars.
The Englishmen laughed at the want of enterprise by the “greasers,” as they contemptuously called the people, and hugged themselves as they thought of what wealth there was in store for them.
One evening, however, Bart, who was rather depressed at the idea of going without his old companion Maude, although at the same time he could not help feeling pleased at the prospect of her remaining in safety, was returning to his lodgings, which he shared with Joses, when he overtook a couple of the English cattle-breeders, old neighbours of the Doctor, who were loudly talking about the venture.
“I shouldn’t be a bit surprised,” said one, “if this all turns out to be a fraud.”
“Oh no, I think it’s all right.”
“But there have been so many cheats of this kind.”
“True, so there have,” said the other.
“And if the Doctor has got us together to take us right out there for the sake of his own ends?”
“Well, I shouldn’t care to be him,” said the other, “if it proves to be like that.”