A man—or, as it developed at closer range—a boy, a very ragged boy, riding a sweating horse, was tearing madly in their direction. Boylike, he pulled his poor beast to its haunches and gave what was intended for a military salute as he saw the redoubtable Gonzales.
“Well, what’s the matter? Who are you?” demanded that gentleman, unencouragingly.
“Señor Juan Pachuca——” gasped the panting messenger, “he sends me to say to Captain Gonzales to make speed. He waits—at his rancho. He has news of the revolution,” finished the boy, proudly.
“News! Humph, is that all he’s got?” demanded Angel, promptly.
“Men, and horses and plunder—oh, much plunder!” The boy’s eyes shone.
“So? That’s better, eh, Cortes? Shall we go, or——”
“Señor Pachuca says to make speed. Much speed,” reiterated the messenger. “The troops went South only last night.”
“We had better go,” said Cortes, eagerly. “We can make the rancho with hard riding by morning. That is, unless you burden yourself with those!” he gestured scornfully toward the two Americans.
Angel hesitated. Like Scott, he hated changing his mind. Also, the ransom loomed large; and he liked the woman’s looks—liked her manner of talk. With her dark hair and eyes, and her soft voice, she was like one of his own people——only much more charming, he reflected, with a gleam of the eye.
“Señor Pachuca says——”