"Yes," spoke Captain Fernando de Rivera, "these explorers are careless dogs. One seldom finds the places they map out so gaily. And what do they care who dies of the hunger or scurvy--drinking their flagons in Mexico or Madrid? A curse, say I, on the lot of them."
Portola turned an irritated glance of disapproval on his henchmen. "What say you, my pathfinder?" he addressed Sergeant Jose Ortega, chief of Scouts.
"That no one may be certain, your excellency," the scout-chief answered. "But," his eyes met those of his commander with a look of grim significance, "one may learn."
Portola laid a hand almost affectionately on the other's leather-covered shoulder. Here was a man after his heart. Always he had been ahead of the van, selecting camp sites, clearing ways through impenetrable brush, fighting off hostile savages. Now, ill and hungry as he was, for rations had for several days been down to four tortillas per man, Ortega was ready to set forth again.
"You had better rest, Saldado. You are far from well. Start to-morrow."
Ortega shrugged. "Meanwhile they mutter," his eyes jerked to the indiscriminate company below.
"When men march and have a motive, they forget their grievances. When they lie in camp the devil stalks about and puts mischief into their thought. I have been a soldier for fourteen years, your excellency."
"And I for thirty," said the other dryly, but he smiled. "You are right, my sergeant. Go. And may your patron saint, the reverend father of Assisi, aid you."
Ortega saluted and withdrew. "I will require three days with your excellency's grace," he said. Portola nodded and observed Ortega's sharp commands wheel a dozen mounted soldados into line. They galloped past him, their lances at salute and dashed with a clatter of hoofs into the valley below.
Young Francisco Garvez spurred his big mare forward till he rode beside the sergeant. A tall, half-lanky lad he was with the eager prescience of youth, its dreams and something of its shyness hidden in the dark alertness of his mien.