"About a thousand," he answered in a quiet voice, rummaging for his bandolier.
The patio was unusually full of shouting men saddling horses. I saw Don Petronilo, half dressed, at his door, his mistress buckling on his sword. Juan Santillanes was pulling at his trousers with furious haste. There was a steady rattle of clicks as cartridges slipped into rifles. A score of soldiers ran to and fro aimlessly, asking everyone where something was.
I don't think we any of us really believed it. The little square of quiet sky over the patio gave promise of another hot day. Roosters crowed. A cow that was being milked bellowed. I felt hungry.
"How near are they?" I asked.
"Near."
"But the outpost—the guard at the Puerta?"
"Asleep," Fernando said, as he strapped on his cartridge-belt.
Pablo Arriola clanked in, crippled by his big spurs.
"A little bunch of twelve rode up. Our men thought it was only the daily reconnaissance. So after they drove them back, the Puerta guard sat down to breakfast. Then Argumedo himself and hundreds—hundreds——"
"But twenty-five could hold that pass against an army until the rest got there...."