“It must be near night,” I remarked to Raoul.
“I think, about sunset, Captain,” rejoined he. “It feels about that time.”
I could not help smiling. There was something ludicrous in my comrade’s remark about “feeling” the sunset.
The barking of the dogs now ceased, and we could hear voices ahead welcoming the guerilleros.
The hoofs of our mules struck upon a hard pavement, and the sounds echoed as if under an arched way.
Our animals were presently halted, and we were unpacked and flung rudely down upon rough stones, like so many bundles of merchandise.
We lay for some minutes listening to the strange voices around. The neighing of horses, the barking and growling of dogs, the lowing of cattle, the shouts of the arrieros unpacking their mules, the clanking of sabres along the stone pavement, the tinkling of spurs, the laughter of men, and the voices of women—all were in our ears at once.
Two men approached us, conversing.
“They are of the party that escaped us at La Virgen. Two of them are officers.”
“Chingaro! I got this at La Virgen, and a full half-mile off. ’Twas some black jugglery in their bullets. I hope the patrone will hang the Yankee savages.”