"It is sad for all of us, but worse for the old people. Some of them will not believe it. Some of them say they will not go, but will lie down and die on the roadside. It is very sad. Next week there is to be a Junta. But what good will that do?"
"What do you mean by a Junta?" inquired Mr. Page, who was not familiar with Spanish.
"A meeting of the Indians and the white men who have been appointed to find another place for us. But I can not see what good it will do."
"Perhaps the Indians can then say what place they would prefer."
"That, they will never say, I am sure," said Mauricio. "They want no home but this."
Three or four boys now appeared above the slope of the hill. William, in the lead, had a gun in his hand.
"We've been driving rabbits," he said as they passed. "Some day we'll have better luck—and it won't be long, either—driving the Indians away from Warner's."
"You are a very rude boy," said Mr. Page.
"I'm not an old Catholic," sneered the urchin, filliping a small stone directly at Mauricio, who made a step forward.
"We have a cuartel[A] here, youngster," he said. "For a long time it has been empty; we are a peaceful people. But we can have unruly persons put into that cuartel if we wish. Be careful, youngster; be careful."