"Bah! how can a man like you have a grudge against anyone in particular? He only has a grudge against riches. Who are your men?"
"Cívicos—real bandits—regular game for the gallows. My dear fellow, they will perform miracles."
"What! cívicos? The idea is glorious—the men whom the hacenderos pay and support for the purpose of fighting the redskins."
"Good Lord, yes, that is the way of the world. This time they will fight by the side of the redskins against the whites. The idea is original, is it not, especially as, for this affair, they will be disguised as Indians?"
"Better still. And the chief, how many warriors has he with him?"
"I do not know; he will tell you himself."
The chief had remained gloomy and silent during this conversation, and the colonel now turned toward him with an inquiring glance.
"Mixcoatzin is a powerful chief," the redskin said in his guttural voice: "two hundred Apache warriors follow his war plume."
El Garrucholo gave a significant whistle.
"Well," he continued, "I maintain what I said."