Less than four hours elapsed since noon, and Stanislaus had calculated that no rescuing party could be organized before the following day. He was astounded. Morando, he knew, had gone to Monterey with Señor Mendoza. His scouts had brought the word shortly before the attack at the Mission.
The pursuers quickly thinned their line and stretched across the mouth of the pass.
The chief, ever quick-witted, formulated a plan on the moment—to gain time by parleying, meanwhile surreptitiously to recall his riflemen to the front, thus, with his fighters together, hold the ground till night when he would escape under cover of dark. So:
"Under whose leadership come you?" he questioned. "Captain Morando's?"
There was no reply. He repeated:
"Who's your leader, I say? Captain Morando?" his eyes searching the ranks of the newcomers.
Silently men began filtering through the press back to Stanislaus's side, in accordance with his low-toned, hurriedly given order.
"Has that one word from you left your tongue benumbed, fool? Who heads you?" inwardly swearing at his stupidity in allowing his fighting force to become divided. "Answer me. Who heads you?"
"The Señorita Doña Carmelita Mendoza," replied Enrico, impressively.
"Thou hast ever been a joker, old man," guffawed Stanislaus. "Call to mind Salinas field where our bullet overtook thee, and bawl a joke about that."