He drove back those nearest, then sprang to the saddle and dashed away. The guitar had been fastened to the saddle, and now it snapped its cord and fell to the ground. Laughing loudly, the caballero turned his horse, galloped back among the neophytes, scattering them right and left, swung down from his saddle and caught up the instrument, waved it above his head in derision, and was away again.
A pistol spoke behind him, a bullet whistled past his head, but he rode unscathed. A mile away he stopped the horse to wipe the bloody blade on his cloak and return it to its scabbard.
“A courteous reception indeed!” he muttered, and gave his horse the spurs.
A journey of twenty-five miles stretched before him to the next mission in the chain, San Luis Rey de Francia. He did not urge his mount to its utmost, for he did not want to exhaust the beast, and he knew better time would be made travelling a level gait.
Here the highway ran along the sea, and for a time the caballero allowed his horse to walk knee-deep in the tumbling water. Anger still flushed his face; his eyes still were blazing. With a fresh horse procured at San Juan Capistrano he would have been able to reach San Luis Rey de Francia long before nightfall; whereas, because of his reception at the last mission, he would reach it after dark, if at all, for the hills were near, and common report had it that even daylight riding there was perilous enough for a gentleman unattended.
He drove his horse up the slope and to the highway proper again and looked ahead. A dust cloud was in the distance, and in time he made out a herd of cattle being driven along the road. He saw, as he neared them, that there were two Indian herders, and stopped to recharge his pistol. They might prove to be harmless neophytes; they might be thieving gentiles running off mission cattle, and ready to give battle to a traveller.
He stood his horse at one side of the highway as they passed, alert for trouble. They were talking, he could see, and pointing at him, but he could not hear their words. Long after they had gone by, the two Indians turned frequently to look in his direction.
The caballero rode on, with some speed now, since it was growing late in the afternoon. Overhanging crags, jumbles of rock, clumps of scrawny trees cast shadows across the highway and furnished cover for bandits, but he met with no adventure. Through the twilight he galloped, stopping before each hidden curve to listen, straining his eyes to discern the presence of a foe.
Night came, and in the distance he saw lights at San Luis Rey de Francia.
“Let us hope there are men of brains to be found here,” the caballero muttered. “I must have food, drink, rest. It does not matter so much about a horse now, since my own will be refreshed by morning.”