“Now it seems that the stomachs of our good abstemious fathers have lately taken a fancy to buffalo tongue cured in a certain way, which can only be done when the animal is fresh killed. In order to procure this delicacy they have sent these hunters to the buffalo range.”
“How long have they been gone?—can you tell?”
“Several weeks—long before the return of our cibolero.”
“It is possible they may be on the way back. Is it not?”
“I think it quite probable, but I shall ride over to the mission this very hour and inquire.”
“Do so; it would be well if we could secure them. A brace of fellows, such as you describe these to be, would be worth our whole command. Lose no time.”
“I shall not waste a minute,” Roblado replied, and leaning over the wall he called out, “Hola! José! my horse there!”
Shortly after a messenger came up to say that his horse was saddled and ready. He was about to descend the escalera, when a large closely-cropped head—with a circular patch about the size of a blister shaven out of the crown—made its appearance over the stone-work at the top of the escalera. It was the head of the Padré Joaquin, and the next moment the owner, bland and smiling, appeared upon the azotea.