"The trouble is that the old man is remembering the woman who brought misfortune upon him in the heyday of his youth," Francis said. He turned to the peon. "Ask your father to read the knot-writing and see what it says for or against women traveling in the foot-steps of God."
In vain the ancient high priest fumbled the sacred writing. There was not to be found the slightest authoritative objection to woman.
"He's mixing his own experiences up with his mythology," Francis grinned triumphantly. "So I guess it's pretty near all right, Leoncia, for you to stay for a bite to eat. The coffee's made. After that…"
But "after that" came before. Scarcely had they seated themselves on the ground and begun to eat, when Francis, standing up to serve Leoncia with tortillas, had his hat knocked off.
"My word!" he said, sitting down. "That was sudden. Henry, take a squint and see who tried to pot-shoot me."
The next moment, save for the peon's father, all eyes were peeping across the rim of the foot-step. What they saw, creeping upon them from every side, was a nondescript and bizarrely clad horde of men who seemed members of no particular race but composed of all races. The breeds of the entire human family seemed to have moulded their lineaments and vari-colored their skins.
"The mangiest bunch I ever laid eyes on," was Francis' comment.
"They are the Caroos," the peon muttered, betraying fear.
"And who in," Francis began. Instantly he amended. "And who in Paradise are the Caroos?"
"They come from hell," was the peon's answer. "They are more savage than the Spaniard, more terrible than the Maya. They neither give nor take in marriage, nor does a priest reside among them. They are the devil's own spawn, and their ways are the devil's ways, only worse."