"I know it will come true," said the more sanguine Breakstone.
"So do I," said Phil.
Middleton rode away with his brother officers and a small body of regulars, and Phil, Arenberg, and Breakstone rode southward to Agua Neva. When they had gone some distance they stopped and looked back at the plateau and the pass.
"How did we ever do it?" said Phil.
"By refusing to stay whipped," replied Arenberg.
"By making up our minds to die rather than give up," replied Bill Breakstone.
They rode on to the little Mexican town, where Phil had an errand to do. He had talked it over with the other two, and the three had agreed that it was of the utmost importance. All the time a sentence from the letter was running in Phil's head. Some one murmuring words of pity in Mexican had given him water to drink, and the voice was that of a woman.
"It must have been from a well," said Phil, "this is a dry country with water mostly from wells, and around these wells villages usually grow. Bill, we must be on the right track. I can't believe that we're going wrong."
"The signs certainly point the way we're thinking," said Bill Breakstone. "The lava, the dust, and the water. We've passed the lava and the dust, and we know that the water is before us."
They came presently to Agua Neva, a somber little town, now reoccupied by a detachment from Taylor's army. The people were singularly quiet and subdued. The defeat of Santa Anna by so small a force and his precipitate flight made an immense impression upon them, and, as they suffered no ill treatment from the conquerors, they did not seek to make trouble. There was no sharpshooting in the dark, no waylaying of a few horsemen by guerillas, and the three could pursue without hesitation the inquiry upon which they were bent.