"It is a strange thing," said Antonio, thoughtfully. "What was the young man like? How old? Was he a Mexican or an American?"
"I don't know. He looked like an American, though he spoke Spanish perfectly. He might be twenty years old. It is an odd thing, Antonio—and it is that, perhaps, which made me speak so sharply when I first saw these new friends of yours—but the young man was something like the bigger one of these two boys: the same hook-nose and light-gray eyes, though his hair was black instead of red."
"A strange thing altogether," said Antonio, reflectively. "I don't wonder you feel a little uneasy."
"As to these boys here," the padron went on, jerking his head in our direction, "you may tell them that they need not fear The Badger. It is only I who have cause to fear him, and perhaps you, as my nephew. These boys may go where they like without danger. The chances are they won't see El Tejon—they certainly won't if he doesn't want to be seen. And, Antonio, just thank them for bringing me their information, and then send them off."
So saying, old Galvez turned his unmannerly back on us and rode away.
The interview, if it can be called such—for the padron had not addressed a single word to us—being plainly at an end, we shook hands with our friend, Antonio, and having thanked him very heartily for his service, we set off for camp, riding fast, in our hurry to get back before darkness should overtake us.
CHAPTER XI The Spanish Trail
"Dick," said I, as we sat together that evening beside our camp-fire, "what do you make of it? That was a queer thing, that young fellow coming inquiring for El Tejon. I confess, for my part, I can't make head or tail of it."