“Hombre de bien,” (A good man), answered the Mexican, nodding as he spoke.
Raoul seemed satisfied, and remained silent.
I could not help noticing the “hombre de bien” myself; and no more could I help fancying, after a short observation, that the rancho was indebted for the honour of his presence more to the black eyes of Jesusita than to any zeal on his part regarding the spiritual welfare of the contrabandista or his family.
There was a villainous expression upon his lips as he watched the girl moving over the floor; and once or twice I caught him scowling upon Chane, who, in his usual Irish way, was “blarneying” with Jesusita, and helping her to fan the charcoal.
“Where’s the padre?” whispered Raoul to our host.
“He was in the rinconada this morning.”
“In the rinconada!” exclaimed the Frenchman, starting.
“They’re gone down to the Bridge. The band has had a fandango with your people and lost some men. They say they have killed a good many stragglers along the road.”
“So he was in the rinconada, you say? and this morning, too?” inquired Raoul, in a half-soliloquy, and without heeding the last remark of the contrabandista.
“We’ve got to look sharp, then,” he added, after a pause.