Lopez called for the house servants, but none answered. There was not an Indian woman near the place; no children played about the huts in the rear; and the men, of course, had gone toward the cañon. Sergeant Cassara stood at the end of the patio and sneered as Lopez began to realise these things.
“This man who calls himself Rojerio Rocha and takes such a high hand with affairs evidently was not well informed as to conditions,” the sergeant suggested.
“I asked him not to come to the rancho to-day,” Lopez returned, “but he would have it so.”
“He insisted, eh?”
“Si, señor.”
“But why bring the ladies into danger? Do they not have brains at the mission in these days?”
“He insisted, also, that the ladies make the journey.”
“Ah! He did? Well, the thing that appeals most to me now is for you to start your carreta back toward the mission as soon as possible, and make as good time as you can getting there. The ladies will have to get over their fright first, of course. I do not like the air hereabouts—it smells rank of conspiracy and murder.”
“I agree with you, señor,” Lopez admitted.
“And while we are waiting for these same ladies to settle their nerves, why not round up some of these gentiles and propound a few leading questions? Perhaps we can beat an answer or two out of the dogs.”