Breakfast was served immediately. A table had been made ready in the old armory. Vacant musket racks and empty ammunition boxes were strange adornment for a breakfast, the room itself cobwebbed and dusty. Sperm-oil lanterns furnished needed light.
Peons served coffee and tortillas, accompanied by sea-trout browned to a turn over charcoal. This was followed with a delicious dish made of chicken and green corn boiled together, and the inevitable frijoles. Strawberries, large and luscious, which had been soaked in Mission wine, were plentifully distributed at each plate, of which the breakfasters partook at intervals throughout the meal, eating the fruit from the stem. Fresh figs stewed in sherry completed the repast.
There was little conversation in this company made up of individuals usually vivacious and talkative. The tenseness of eager expectation held everyone quiet.
The meal was not much more than finished when Captain Farquharson entered the room unannounced. The men and women sprang up.
"Señora Valentino," the Captain called.
She stepped to his side.
"My scouts have rushed word to me that Barcelo has left Alisal and is stampeding to Monterey."
"What is that you say, Captain?" from the señora, incredulously.
"Barcelo is but a few miles from the outskirts of town, saying he is going to proclaim himself dictator of a California republic, and calling down vengeance on anyone opposing. The fat's in the fire if Fairbanks gets wind of this."
"I must ride at once and meet the Colonel."