He found him not. After scanning the features of all five, he was seen to turn away, and the unconcerned manner in which he moved from the spot told that he who was sought was not among the slain.
“The news, Wheatley?”
“News, Cap! Grand news, by thunder! It appears we have been barking up the wrong tree—at least so thinks President Polk. They say we can’t reach Mexico on this line; so we’re all going to be drawn off, and shipped to some port farther down the gulf, Vera Cruz—I believe.”
“Ah! grand news, indeed.”
“I don’t like it a bit,” continued Wheatley; “the less so since it is rumoured that old ‘Rough and Ready’ is to be recalled, and we’re to be commanded by that book martinet Scott. It’s shabby treatment of Taylor, after what the old vet has accomplished. They’re afraid of him setting up for President next go. Hang their politics! It’s a confounded shame, by thunder!”
I could partly understand Wheatley’s reluctance to be ordered upon the new line of operations. The gay lieutenant was never troubled with ennui; his leisure hours he contrived to pass pleasantly enough in company with Conchita, the plump, dark-eyed daughter of the alcalde; more than once, I had unwittingly interrupted them in their amorous dalliance. The rancheria with its mud huts and dusty lanes, in the eyes of the Texan, was a city of gilded palaces, its streets paved with gold. It was Wheatley’s heaven, and Conchita was the angel who inhabited it.
Little as either he or I had liked the post at first, neither of us desired a change of quarters.
As yet, no order had arrived to call the picket in, but my companion affirmed that the camp-rumour was a substantial one, and believed that we might expect such a command at any moment.
“What say they of me?” I inquired.
“Of you, Cap? Why, nothing. What do you expect them to say of you?”