"Our Indian brother shows now his likeness of spirit to the four-footed dwellers of the wood. Famine madness possesses both. Together do they roam by day and weirdly cry by night," said Mendoza in the council of his neighbors.
"The Indians lack not food or water," said some one. "What need of such strange actions?"
"The savage is close to the surface in every nature," replied Mendoza. "Among our Indian friends the outcropping is more easily apparent."
Several began speaking at the same time, an unusual thing in that placid assembly. Like a murmur it began, but rose to distinct word and ordered expression. "Our wives, our children, our lives, are in danger from these mad wards the province has given us."
"Our soldiers are at the pueblo," said one.
"They number less than fifty. The Indians have strength and to spare to drive our few troopers into the San Francisco bay," said Zelaya.
"Why were so many aborigines trained in the use of the musket and lance?" from some one else.
"They have fought our battles against their untamed brethren for a generation," replied Mendoza.
As usual this meeting was in Mendoza's house. Directly across the road was the Mission church.
As if to give emphasis to the fears but just expressed from everywhere there came the peculiar semitone that only moccasined feet can make. A thousand footfalls centered their way to the old adobe church. The Indians poured through the open doors into the auditorium until it overflowed. Like restless ants those who could not get within ran around the building, filling every approach, surging in resistless multitude, as did the thirst-driven cattle around the water source.