Elbert wondered at the curious tone. This man had reservations.
‘I have been on the road for two days and possibly am misinformed,’ Elbert added carefully.
‘On the road—from where, Señor?’
‘From San Isidro—’
The other’s hand jerked at his bridle-rein.
Now Elbert began to realize that San Isidro was hardly a town to mention—so close to the gorge of the same name where the recent hold-up had taken place.
The Mexican slowly pulled himself together to reply. ‘Monte Vallejo is not being held in Arecibo. In purgatorio, at this hour, so I trust. Ah, it was magnificent!’
Mamie was now forgotten. Transformation in the rurale was to be witnessed, moreover, at this point. The man seemed higher, rising in his saddle with enthusiasm. Here was one of the pride of the Republic, indeed, having banished all present care, in the thought of the recent exploits of his troop, and especially of the light-hearted and inimitable courage of his chief, Ramon Bistula, el capitan, to whom the bandit’s capture was largely due.
Tributes, dithyrambs, even—but no news.
‘You say Monte Vallejo is dead—already put to death?’