"Your gringo servant has made much trouble for himself, and is now in jail," the man said to Farquharson.
"How do you know it is my servant?"
"He told me. I am under jailer. I was directed to Colonel Barcelo's, whither some said you had gone. The peons here brought me to you. Your servant, sir, getting in liquor, shot one of the officers of the guard. Now, he wishes to see you on a matter of gravest importance. Doubtless he will be executed at sunset. Will you come, señor?"
"Zounds! Adios, señora. I'll return as soon as I have settled this wretched business. I must get poor Brown out of his predicament, let come what may."
The messenger, followed by the Captain, passed out of the house. They followed the street to a narrow passage and turned into it. The supposed elderly Mexican shook himself. Away fell disguise, and the scowling face of Yoscolo was before Farquharson.
"You root-digging beast!" exclaimed the Englishman through his shut teeth. He aimed a blow with his fist at the chieftain's head. Yoscolo ducked to one side. A blanket fell from behind over the Captain's face and shoulders. A strong embrace pinioned his arms and carried him up many stairs, his muffled shouts not sounding above the shuffle of accompanying feet.
Soon Farquharson was pushed through an entrance. Yoscolo gave quick orders in the Indian tongue. His men bound the Englishman hand and foot, and removed the blanket from his head. He found himself in a large room lighted by a lantern. Several rude benches lined the walls, while dried grass in a corner where blankets lay marked the sleeping place of Indians or of lower-class Mexicans.
"Bring a settee for the Captain," said the leader, with mock politeness. "He must be weary after his recent exertion."
His men complied.
"More comfortable now, amigo?" when Farquharson was seated. "Well, then, let's to business. I've not much time to spend with you."