"That is different," said he. "Diego, you are welcome now; and yet," he went on, "Diego is Indian, yes; peon, yes; but Yaqui, no!"
"It is true, I am not a Yaqui," answered the other, with some pride, "but I am a Mayo. My people hunted over this ground, hither and thither, from the sea to the Aztec's land, from the Smoking Mountain to the Pimas' cornfields; but now, their bow is broken, their gold gilds the spurs of the Spaniard. Diego stands alone; the last of the Mayos is the pointing dog of the Yaquis, the Apaches, and the Foe-to-all-men."
He locked his hands, and, bowing, remained like a statue before the trio.
"Good!" said the Apache, "We are born diverse, but hatred makes us brothers. I will bring a chosen band to the secret gate."
"And I," said the peon leader, "will set my brothers on the alert to attack the farm at every point."
"And I will manage the great gun," said Pedrillo, pleased at how patly things were falling. "Here upon the hill—"
"Out of shot?" sneered Juan. "No! Your Mexicans can manage the cannon. You are the gentleman to handle the ladies with gloves; you, Captain, will accompany the spy."
"But I cannot move out of the saddle."
"But you heard Diego say a mounted man will be taken for one of their own officers—"
"Still—"