Thus, the American and Mexican faced each other on the top of the ridge for several instants in silence, Tom heartily wishing all the while that he possessed a sufficient knowledge of the Spanish language to put a few questions to him.
An entirely different air distinguished this man from the majority of Mexicans he had seen in the little town across the Rio.
His age, of course, precluded the idea of his being a vaquero. Besides, everything about him seemed to indicate that he occupied a much higher station in life. He wondered why the Mexican was roaming about the country alone—or was he alone? A startling thought flashed through his mind. Had this man any connection with the cattle rustlers—might he not be one of the band acting as a sentinel? Desperados did not always look the part!
Tom Clifton, with his love of mysteries, began to think that he had now stumbled upon another, which might prove to be fully as interesting as the one his imagination had woven about the young pianist of the Mexican theater.
“I do wonder——” he thought; then with a little start he realized that the other was speaking. The words themselves were meaningless, but the man’s actions perfectly clear. The Mexican wished the lad to follow him. Highly puzzled, Tom nodded his head. Then side by side they rode until, skirting around the side of a jagged ridge that rose high above their heads, his eyes took in a view which brought the cry: “The Rio Grande!” from his lips.
Yes—the great river appeared right before him. Its muddy water, faintly tinged in places with reflections from the brilliant sky, was flowing near the base of a line of rugged, almost perpendicular bluffs.
“Well, well, I certainly never expected to run across it so soon as this!” he exclaimed.
He felt a touch on his arm. The gray-bearded Mexican’s gaze was fixed intently upon the opposite shore where the hills loomed up bright in the sunshine.
“My country!” he exclaimed in English.
What a wealth of meaning those two words, quietly spoken, seemed to express. The man, sitting almost motionless in his saddle, a troubled look in his piercing black eyes, seemed just then to typify the sorrows of that great land, brought to misery and suffering by so much internal dissension.