“It is this, your excellency. I am but a poor cibolero.”
“You are Carlos the cibolero! I know you.”
“Yes, your excellency, we have met—at the fiesta of San Juan—”
“Yes, yes! I recollect your splendid horsemanship.”
“Your excellency is kind to call it so. It does not avail me now. I am in great trouble!”
“What has befallen? Speak out, man.” Both Vizcarra and Roblado guessed the purport of the cibolero’s request. They desired that it should be heard by the few soldiers lounging about the gate and for that reason they spoke in a loud tone themselves, anxious that their petitioner might do the same.
Not to oblige them, but for reasons of his own, Carlos replied in a loud voice. He, too, wished the soldiers, but more particularly the sentry at the gate, to hear what passed between himself and the officers. “Well, your excellency,” replied he, “I live in a poor rancho, the last in the settlement, with my old mother and sister. The night before last it was attacked by a party of Indians—my mother left for dead—the rancho set on fire—and my sister carried off!”
“I have heard of all this, my friend,—nay, more, I have myself been out in pursuit of the savages.”
“I know it, your excellency. I was absent on the Plains, and only returned last night. I have heard that your excellency was prompt in pursuing the savages, and I feel grateful.”
“No need of that; I only performed my duty. I regret the occurrence, and sympathise with you; but the villains have got clear off, and there is no hope of bringing them to punishment just now. Perhaps some other time—when the garrison here is strengthened—I shall make an incursion into their country, and then your sister may be recovered.”