The supper was soon despatched, but our host had some puros in the house—a luxury we had not enjoyed lately; and, hating to hurry away from such comfortable quarters, we determined to stay and take a smoke.
We had hardly lit our cigars when Jesusita, who had gone to the door, came hastily back, exclaiming:
“Papa—papa! hay gente fuera!” (Papa, there are people outside!)
As we sprang to our feet several shadows appeared through the open walls. Lincoln seized his rifle and ran to the door. The next moment he rushed back, shouting out:
“I told yer so!” And, dashing his huge body against the back of the rancho, he broke through the cane pickets with a crash.
We were hastening to follow him when the frail structure gave way; and we found ourselves buried, along with our host and his women, under a heavy thatch of saplings and palm-leaves.
We heard the crack of our comrade’s rifle without—the scream of a victim—the reports of pistols and escopettes—the yelling of savage men; and then the roof was raised again, and we were pulled out and dragged down among the trees, and tied to their trunks and taunted and goaded, and kicked and cuffed, by the most villainous-looking set of desperadoes it has ever been my misfortune to fall among. They seemed to take delight in abusing us—yelling all the while like so many demons let loose.
Our late acquaintance—the curé—was among them; and it was plain that he had brought the party on us. His “reverence” looked high and low for Lincoln; but, to his great mortification, the hunter had escaped.
Note 1. Rinconada. Literally corner; here it means a village.