In this country, we repeat it, where the police are a nullity, and consequently surveillance impossible, a journey of four leagues—and the Rancho de San José is only that distance from Guaymas—is a very serious affair, and demands as many precautions as a journey of a hundred leagues with us, the enemies who may be met, and with whom you run a risk of a contest at any moment—Indians, robbers, or wild beasts—being too numerous, determined, and too greedy for plunder and murder to allow the traveller to confide with gaiety of heart in the speed of his horse.
They were already far from Guaymas, the white houses of which town had long ago disappeared in the numerous turnings of the road, when the capataz, leaving the head of the caravan, where he had hitherto remained galloped back to the palanquin, where Don Sylva was still riding.
"Well, Blas," the latter said, "what is there new? Have you noticed anything alarming ahead of us?"
"Nothing, excellency," the capataz replied: "all is going well, and in an hour at the latest we shall be at the Rancho."
"Whence, then, the haste you showed to join me again?"
"Oh! Excellency, it is not much; but an idea occurred to me—something I wished you to see."
"Ah, ah!" Don Sylva said. "What is it, my lad?"
"Look, excellency," the capataz continued, pointing in a south-western direction.
"Ah! What is that? A fire, if I am not mistaken."
"It is indeed a fire, excellency. Look here;" and he pointed east-south-east.