Robed Franciscans raised eyes to the skies and prayed for an end of such unsubstantial, turbulent times. And in this mingling of atmosphere Sergeant Carlos Cassara slept, and his corporal and soldiers slept, and the flies buzzed, and the neophyte servant nodded against the wall.
Half an hour passed. The neophyte, whose duty it was to wave the palm-leaf and keep flies and bees off the face of the sergeant, swept the big fan through the air languidly, glanced around to be sure that all slept, then got slowly and silently to his feet.
Once more he waved the fan, then dropped it and crept like a ghost across the room to the open door. He stood in it for a moment, shading his eyes with his hand, and looked up El Camino Real toward the north. Sergeant Carlos Cassara continued his snoring, but he opened one eye and watched the Indian closely.
Again the neophyte glanced back into the barracks-room, and for that instant the sergeant’s eye was closed. When it opened a second time the Indian was contemplating the highway as before, and the manner in which he stood expressed in itself hope and eagerness.
Presently he turned from the doorway to find that the sergeant was sitting up on the floor and regarding him. Mingled fear and rage flashed in the neophyte’s eyes, then died out, and he hung his head and stood waiting.
“Dog of a neophyte!” Cassara roared. “Is this the way you attend to your duties? Wander away and let your betters be eaten by flies, eh? Does not your padre teach you to guard your superiors at all times?”
“Pardon, señor.”
“Pardon, coyote? ’Tis but a short distance from the presidio to the mission proper, yet a bullet can find your heart before you can reach the chapel and seek sanctuary!”
The sergeant, grunting, got upon his feet, his eyes never leaving those of the unfortunate neophyte, one hand fumbling at the hilt of his sword, the other reaching for a whip that hung on a peg in the adobe wall.
“Come!” he commanded.