“Surely so; and destroyed if defeated: the men butchered, the women and children carried into captivity.”
At this the young aide-de-camp turns round on his chair, his face showing an expression of pain. He says nothing, however, but continues an earnest listener to the conversation.
“Merciful Heaven!” exclaims the ganadero, with a groan, “I hope it has not come to that.”
“I hope so too, and don’t yet think it has; only that it’s probable enough—too probable. Still, even if set upon, they would resist; and when one comes to remember how many there were of them, they ought to make a stout resistance.”
“Many of them,” rejoins Don Juliano, “both miners and vaqueros, are of approved valour, and were well armed. I was at the old minera when they started off, and saw that for myself.”
“Yes, I know; but their holding out would depend on the sort of ground they chanced to be on when attacked, if they have been attacked. By good luck, our mutual brother-in-law is no novice to Indian tactics, but a soldier of experience, who’ll know how to act in any emergency.”
“True; but the worst of it is his being embarrassed by having so many women and children with him; among them, alas! my sister and niece. Pobrecitas!”
Again the young officer shifts uneasily on his chair, the expression of pain still upon his face. For he is the cousin whom Gertrude was said to have forgotten.
“They took a number of large vehicles with them?” says the Colonel, interrogatively. “American wagons, did they not?”
“They did.”