“Ah! some of our fellows from the cuartel? Bring them in.”
“It is not any of the officers, Colonel. There’s only one man, and he’s a civilian.
“Civilian or soldier, you’re free to introduce him. I hope,” he adds, in an undertone, “it’s one of the ricos of the neighbourhood, who won’t mind taking an albur at montè or a throw of the dice. I’m just in the vein for a bit of play.”
“He I’m going to introduce don’t look much like a rico. From what I can see of him in the darkness, I should say that the blanket upon his shoulders and his sheepskin smallclothes—somewhat dilapidated by the way—are about all the property he possesses.”
“He’s a stranger to you, then?”
“As much as to yourself, as you’ll say after seeing him—perhaps more.”
“What sort of man is he?”
“For that matter, he can hardly be described as a man. At least, he’s not one of the gent-de-razon. He’s only an Indian.”
“Ha! Comanche?”
As he utters this interrogatory, Colonel Gil Uraga gives a slight start, and looks a little uneasy. His relations with men of the Indian race are of a delicate nature; and, although keen to cultivate their acquaintance whenever occasion requires it, he prefers keeping all Indians at a distance—more especially Comanches, when he has no particular need of their services. The thought has flashed across his mind that the man waiting to be ushered into his presence may be a messenger from the Horned Lizard; and with the Tenawa chief he desires no further dealings—at least for a time. Therefore, the belief of its being an emissary from his red-skinned confederate somewhat discomposes him.