"No sabe, señor."
"Well," resignedly, "that is about all I've been able to get out of men like you for months."
They were presently in San José. The pueblo was in an almost hysterical state. Morando had drawn with him nearly all the men capable of bearing arms. Rumors were flying about that the Spanish force had been cut to pieces and that Yoscolo was about to descend on the country.
Brown did not understand a word of what was being said. He insisted on starting for Monterey. The peon leader ordered his men to detain him by force.
"Gosh darn yer! Gosh darn yer!" the American shouted. "Leggo my horse! Leggo my horse, I say!"
He loosed both feet from the stirrups and kicked lustily. The natives grasped his legs and hung on like pendant weights despite the rear of the mount. He cut about him with his riding-whip. The peons literally swarmed over him, pinioning his arms from front and behind, meanwhile shouting objections, curses, explanations in mingled Spanish and Indian.
"Shut off your gibberish! Shut off your gibberish, I say! I've got to light out o' here. Get off my back! I've got to get the Cap'n," Brown yelled.
"I'm here, Brown."
Farquharson had ridden up unobserved.
"I heard things were stirring around here and I came to find out about it," he continued. "I knew I should meet you on the way."