"What is the Pelayo?"
"Another hacienda. There are some of ours at the Pelayo, I think...."
We parted with an "adios."
For hours I went on, running over the hilltops, staggering through the cruel espadas, slipping down the steep sides of dried river beds. There was no water. I hadn't eaten or drunk. It was intensely hot.
About eleven I rounded the shoulder of a mountain and saw the small gray patch that was Bruquilla. Here passed the Camino Real, and the desert lay flat and open. A mile away a tiny horseman jogged along. He seemed to see me; he pulled up short and looked in my direction a long time. I stood perfectly motionless. Pretty soon he went on, getting smaller and smaller, until at last there was nothing but a little puff of dust. There was no other sign of life for miles and miles. I bent low and ran along the side of the road, where there was no dust. Half a league westward lay the Güereca's house, hidden in the gigantic row of alamo trees that fringed its running brook. A long way off I could see a little red spot on the top of the low hill beside it; when I came nearer, I saw it was father Güereca, staring toward the east. He came running down when he saw me, clenching his hands.
"What has passed? What has passed? Is it true that the colorados have taken the Cadena?"
I told him briefly what had happened.
"And Longinos?" he cried, wrenching at my arm. "Have you seen Longinos?"
"No," I said. "The compañeros all retreated to Santo Domingo."
"You must not stay here," said the old man, trembling.