Small, square mud houses occupied the hole in the forest. Where the plaster had not fallen off, their white fronts were dazzling, but they were dirty and ruinous and the narrow street was strewn with decaying rubbish. Although the pueblo had once prospered under Spanish rule, it was now inhabited by languid half-breeds of strangely mixed blood, engaged in smuggling and revolutionary plots. They stood about the doorways, barefooted and ragged, watching Kit with furtive black eyes.
"I want porters and a guide to the mission," he told the patron, who lounged against a wall smoking a cigar.
"It is a long way, señor, and the road is bad. Besides, one cannot travel when the sun is high."
"The road is, no doubt, safer then than in the dark."
"That is true," agreed the other with a philosophic shrug. "The country is disturbed."
"I must start at once," Kit said firmly. "I am willing to pay for the risk."
The patron spoke to the others in a harsh dialect, but none of the loafing figures moved.
"They say the risk is great," he remarked. "There has been fighting and the president's soldiers are in the woods."
"The president's soldiers will not meddle with us," Kit answered, incautiously.
For a moment the half-breed's eyes were keen, but his dark face resumed its inscrutable look.