“Whence come you, amigo?” demands the commanding officer, as the stranger is brought face to face with him.
“From Nacomori, on the Horcasitas, Señor Colonel,” is the answer.
“On what business?” asks Requeñes, more than half divining it.
“Oh, señor, the Indians have been there; killed scores of our people—children as grown men; plundered and burnt our houses; carried off all our young women; made rack and ruin of everything. I rode to Arispe, hoping to find you there, but you were gone, and I’ve hastened hither after you.”
“What Indians? Where did they come from?”
“From the north, señor; down the river. Apaches, we thought; but it was in the night they came upon us, and no one could be sure. When morning came they had gone off with everything.”
“What night? How long since this occurred?”
“The night of Lunes—just four days ago.”
“The raiding party of the Coyoteros, gentlemen,” says the Colonel to his surrounding. “The time corresponds, the place—everything; and likely they’ve got back, and are now by the Cerro yonder. If so, we have others to rescue beside our own friends; with chastisement to inflict on the red-handed marauders, to say nothing of revenge. So much the more reason for our not losing time. Major! order the regiment to close up and form line. Let the others be drawn in also; I want to say a word to them.”
With a quickness due to thorough discipline, the lancers are brought into battle line; not for fight now, but to receive an address. Thrown forward on one flank, and facing inwards, are the light artillerists; while on the other in file form are Romero’s irregulars.