“Chappo,” he said curtly, “look beyond through that window. Is it a band of horses coming down the mesa trail, or is it men?”
“Neither, my General, it is the women who are left of the rancherias of Palomitas. They come to do a prayer service at an old altar here. Once Mesa Blanca was a great hacienda with a chapel for the peons, and they like to come. It is a custom.”
“What saint’s day is this?”
“I am not wise enough, General, to remember all;––our women tell us.”
“Um!––saint’s day unknown, and all a pueblo on a trail to honor it! Call Fidelio.”
There was a whistle, a quick tread, and one of the men of Palomitas stood in the door.
“Take two men and search every woman coming for prayers––guns have been carried under serapes.”
“But, General–––”
“Search every woman,––even though your own mother be of them!”
“General, my own mother is already here, and on her knees beyond there in the altar room. They pray for heart to ask of you their rights in Soledad.”