“I always accept what Heaven provides. On the level spot half a hundred feet from the creek would be an acceptable place.”
The six Indians bowed before him and merged into the darkness. Chuckling to himself, the caballero sank back on his cloak and listened, but he did not release his grip on the butt of his pistol. Sounds came to him through the night from a short distance away—muttering voices, flapping skins, the squashing of wet moccasins in the mud. Half an hour passed, and then he heard the voice of the spokesman again:
“Señor.”
“Well?”
“The camp is prepared; everything is ready. It is best that we slip away before being heard or seen. At midnight each night some one of us will visit you, señor, and bring provisions. And now—is there anything you would command this night?”
“Nothing. You have done well, it seems.”
“You will be guarded, señor. There are friends of Captain Fly-by-Night inside the mission walls, but they must move carefully.”
“I should think so.”
“Everything is in the teepee, even to food for your horse. The fire is laid before it, and you have but to strike flint and steel. Adios, señor.”
“Adios!”