"My! What a chance there is here"—Dick began, when he suddenly checked himself. "Here's some one coming," said he. "Is this the padron?"
"Yes; he must be coming to see who you are. I hope he won't make himself unpleasant."
As Antonio spoke, there came riding toward us a square-set, gray-haired Mexican, at whom, as he approached, we gazed with much interest. He was a man of fifty, or thereabouts, harsh-featured and forbidding, who scowled at us in a manner which made me, at least, rather wish I had not come. To put it shortly and plainly, the Señor Galvez had, in fact, the most truculent countenance I had ever seen; and his first remark to his nephew, as the latter advanced to meet him, was on a par with his appearance.
"What are you bringing these American pigs here for, Antonio?" he growled, in Spanish. "You know I will have nothing to do with them."
Poor Antonio flushed painfully under his brown skin. He half raised his hand with a deprecatory gesture, as though to beg the speaker to be more moderate, while he glanced uneasily at us out of the corner of his eye to see if we had understood.
It was then that Dick and I congratulated ourselves on having accidentally deceived our friend into the belief that we did not speak Spanish. Suppressing our natural desire to bandy a few compliments with the churlish padron, we put on an expression of countenance as stolid and vacant as if we had been indeed the American pigs aforesaid—immensely to the comfort of the younger man, as it was easy to see.
"Do not be harsh, señor," said he. "They are only boys, and they are doing no harm here. Moreover," he went on, "they have brought you a piece of information which you will be glad to have:—El Tejon is still alive."
The elder man started; his weather-beaten face paled a little.
"How do they know that?" he asked, suspiciously.