“Then what’s taken him down the Pecos? Why went he?”
“Señor coronel, he has not gone of his own will. It is only his dead body that went; it was carried down by the flood.”
“Drowned? Pedrillo drowned?”
“Ay de mi! ’Tis true, as I tell you—too true, pobrecito.”
“How did this happen, José?”
“We were crossing at the ford, señor. The waters were up from a norte that’s just passed over the plains. The river was deep and running rapid, like a torrent, Pedrillo’s macho stumbled, and was swept off. It was as much as mine could do to keep its legs. I think he must have got his feet stuck in the stirrups, for I could see him struggling alongside the mule till both went under. When they came to the surface both were drowned—dead. They floated on without making a motion, except what the current gave them as their bodies were tossed about by it. As I could do nothing there, I hastened here to tell you what happened. Pobre Pedrillito!”
The cloud already darkening Uraga’s brow grows darker as he listens to the explanation. It has nothing to do with the death of Pedrillo, or compassion for his fate—upon which he scarce spends a thought—but whether there has been a miscarriage of that message of which the drowned man was the bearer. His next interrogatory, quickly put, is to get satisfied on this head.
“You reached the Tenawa town?”
“We did, señor coronel.”
“Pedrillo carried a message to the Horned Lizard, with a letter for Barbato. You know that, I suppose?”