“Oh, we’re a picket! The army is below.”
“The army?”
“Why, we call it so. There’s six hundred of us; and that’s about as big an army as usually travels in these parts.”
“But who? What are they?”
“They are of all sorts and colours. There’s the Chihuahuanos and Passenos, and niggurs, and hunters, and trappers, and teamsters. Your humble servant commands these last-named gentry. And then there’s the band of your friend Seguin—”
“Seguin! Is he—”
“What? He’s at the head of all. But come! they’re camped down by the spring. Let us go down. You don’t look overfed; and, old fellow, there’s a drop of the best Paso in my saddle-bags. Come!”
“Stop a moment! I am pursued.”
“Pursued!” echoed the hunters, simultaneously raising their rifles, and looking up the ravine.
“How many?”