Whether from the effect of the atmosphere, or by the presentiment of the assault by the multitude of besiegers being imminent, a kind of gloom seemed to reign in the hacienda; the courts were deserted, the sentries were almost unseen, and their "all's well" but feebly re-echoed along the barriers. Not one light sparkled at an aperture to cheer the two watchers on the hill in the heart of the hostile camp.
On the other hand, without, at fires kindled far enough away not to expose the crowds encircling them to gunshot, the rebels noisily kept holiday, shouting and cheering and singing.
In the tent, formed of curtains and carpets thrown over supports of tree stems, erected with all the ingenuity of a people expert by tradition in hut building, the three chiefs of the allied foes of Sonora were in conference.
Each had already gained a hold on the masses,—the Apache by having shown with his handful of warriors that the Mexicans could be bearded in their houses; the Mexican by his notorious feud with the farmer gentry; and Juan, the Yaqui, by having accumulated these hordes, after having excited them to throw off the yoke.
Furthermore, the latter had brought the cannon and suggested its employment against the farm building; and Iron Shirt had distinguished himself in all the charges up to the very pickets, harassing the Mexicans till they were no doubt weary from want of rest.
All the tendency of their conversation was towards taunting the one-legged robber chieftain for his backwardness in the attack.
Suddenly the Mexican, who had borne the innuendoes with deep philosophy, as he smoked a cigarette or two, lifted his head, and listening, said:
"I know that step! It is my spy's! Now, perhaps, I shall show you what manner of man is el Manco."
There was a slight exchange of questions and answers between the guards of the tent, and then the three leaders beheld a dark figure's outlines against the sky.
It was a peon, apparently.