“No rurales! Americanos!” cried Coyote Pete.
The effect was magical. The man’s startled air changed, and with a sheepish smile he stepped forward as Jack and Ralph, who were in advance, drew rein.
“What did he mean by rurales, I wonder?” asked Ralph of Jack in a low tone as the others loped up.
“Why, rurales are a species of police. Rangers, they are called sometimes. They are wild chaps, mostly recruited from the ranks of brigands and highwaymen. The government pays them a high figure to be good and keep law and order.”
“But this man seemed to fear them.”
“Maybe he has reason to. But we can’t be particular. At any rate, we are a strong enough party to look after our own hands. But see, here comes his wife. I guess, after all, he is nothing more unlawful than a cattle rancher in a small way, who perhaps, once-in-a-while takes an unbranded calf or two from his neighbor’s estates.”
The woman who joined the man, who by this time had set down the rifle, was a stout, slatternly-looking creature in a greasy cotton wrapper. She shot out a few rapid words in a low voice to the other, who replied in equally low tones. So far as Jack, who was closest, could judge, the woman seemed to be protesting against something, and the man stilling her objections.
Coyote Pete as spokesman now advanced, and in Spanish asked if they could obtain lodging and refreshment for themselves and their stock.