THE RANCHO.
The road the two men had to travel together was tolerably long. Don Estevan would not have been sorry to shorten it by talking to Don Fernando, particularly as the manner in which he had made acquaintance with the latter, and the light in which he had shown himself, excited the curiosity of the former in the highest degree. Unfortunately, Don Fernando did not seem in the least inclined to keep up the conversation; and, in spite of all his efforts, the major-domo found himself obliged to conform to his companion's state of mind, and imitate his taciturnity.
They had already left the village a long way behind them, and were cantering along the undulating banks of the Rio Bermejo, when they heard, at a short distance in front of them, the sound of a horse at full gallop. We say, they heard; for, shortly after leaving the grotto, the sun had finally disappeared below the horizon, and there had been a sudden transition from the glorious light of day to thick darkness.
In Mexico, where there is no police, or, at all events, only a nominal one, every man is obliged to take care of himself. Two men, meeting on a road after nightfall, cannot accost each other without the greatest precaution, nor approach each other until fully assured they have nothing to fear.
"Keep your distance!" shouted Don Fernando, as soon as he thought the person approaching was within reach of his voice.
"And why so? You know you have nothing to fear from me," answered somebody; the sound caused by the horse's hoofs ceasing at the same time, denoting that the rider had halted.
"I know that voice," said the Mexican.
"And the man, too, Señor Don Fernando, for it is not very long since we met; I am El Zapote."
"Aha!" laughed Don Fernando; "Is it you, Tonillo? Come on, muchacho."