We headed towards the National Bridge.  Raoul had a friend half-way on the route-an old comrade upon whom he could depend.  His rancho was in a secluded spot, near the road that leads to the rinconada [Note 1] of San Martin.  We should find refreshment there; and, if not a bed, “at least”, said Raoul, “a roof and a petate.”  We should not be likely to meet anyone, as it was ten miles off, and it would be late when we reached it.

It was late-near midnight-when we dropped in upon the contrabandista, for such was the friend of Raoul; but he and his family were still astir, under the light of a very dull wax candle.

Jose Antonio-that was his name-was a little “sprung” at the five bareheaded apparitions that burst so suddenly upon him; but, recognising Raoul, we were cordially welcomed.

Our host was a spare, bony old fellow, in leathern jacket and calzoneros (breeches), with a keen, shrewd eye, that took in our situation at a single glance, and saved the Frenchman a great deal of explanation.  Notwithstanding the cordiality with which his friend received him, I noticed that Raoul seemed uneasy about something as he glanced around the room; for the rancho, a small cane structure, had only one.

There were two women stirring about-the wife of the contrabandista, and his daughter, a plump, good-looking girl of eighteen or thereabout.

“No han cenado, caballeros?” (You have not supped, gentlemen), inquired, or rather affirmed, Jose Antonio, for our looks had answered the question before it was asked.

“Ni comido-ni almorzado!” (Nor dined-nor breakfasted!) replied Raoul, with a grin.

“Carambo!  Rafaela!  Jesusita!” shouted our host, with a sign, such as, among the Mexicans, often conveys a whole chapter of intelligence.  The effect was magical.  It sent Jesusita to her knees before the tortilla-stones; and Rafaela, Jose’s wife, seized a string of tassajo, and plunged it into the olla.  Then the little palm-leaf fan was handled, and the charcoal blazed and crackled, and the beef boiled, and the black beans simmered, and the chocolate frothed up, and we all felt happy under the prospect of a savoury supper.

I had noticed that, notwithstanding all this, Raoul seemed uneasy.  In the corner I discovered the cause of his solicitude in the shape of a small, spare man, wearing the shovel-hat and black capote of a priest.  I knew that my comrade was not partial to priests, and that he would sooner have trusted Satan himself than one of the tribe; and I attributed his uneasiness to this natural dislike of the clerical fraternity.

“Who is he, Antone?” I heard him whisper to the contrabandista.

“The cure of San Martin,” was the reply.

“He is new, then?” said Raoul.

“Hombre de bien,” (A good man), answered the Mexican, nodding as he spoke.

Raoul seemed satisfied, and remained silent.

I could not help noticing the “hombre de bien” myself; and no more could I help fancying, after a short observation, that the rancho was indebted for the honour of his presence more to the black eyes of Jesusita than to any zeal on his part regarding the spiritual welfare of the contrabandista or his family.

There was a villainous expression upon his lips as he watched the girl moving over the floor; and once or twice I caught him scowling upon Chane, who, in his usual Irish way, was “blarneying” with Jesusita, and helping her to fan the charcoal.

“Where’s the padre?” whispered Raoul to our host.

“He was in the rinconada this morning.”

“In the rinconada!” exclaimed the Frenchman, starting.

“They’re gone down to the Bridge.  The band has had a fandango with your people and lost some men.  They say they have killed a good many stragglers along the road.”

“So he was in the rinconada, you say? and this morning, too?” inquired Raoul, in a half-soliloquy, and without heeding the last remark of the contrabandista.

“We’ve got to look sharp, then,” he added, after a pause.

“There’s no danger,” replied the other, “if you keep from the road.  Your people have already reached El Plan, and are preparing to attack the Pass of the Cerro. `_El Cojo_,’ they say, has twenty thousand men to defend it.”

During this dialogue, which was carried on in whispers, I had noticed the little padre shifting about uneasily in his seat.  At its conclusion he rose up, and bidding our host “buenas noches,” was about to withdraw, when Lincoln, who had been quietly eyeing him for some time with that sharp, searching look peculiar to men of his kidney, jumped up, and, placing himself before the door, exclaimed in a drawling, emphatic tone: 

“No, yer don’t!”

“Que cosa?” (What’s the matter?) asked the padre indignantly.

“Kay or no kay-cosser or no cosser-yer don’t go out o’ hyur afore we do.  Rowl, axe yur friend for a piece o’ twine, will yer?”

The padre appealed to our host, and he in turn appealed to Raoul.  The Mexican was in a dilemma.  He dared not offend the cure, and on the other hand he did not wish to dictate to his old comrade Raoul.  Moreover, the fierce hunter, who stood like a huge giant in the door, had a voice in the matter; and therefore Jose Antonio had three minds to consult at one time.

“It ain’t Bob Linkin ’d infringe the rules of hospertality,” said the hunter; “but this hyur’s a peculiar case, an’ I don’t like the look of that ’ar priest, nohow yer kin fix it.”

Raoul, however, sided with the contrabandista, and explained to Lincoln that the padre was the peaceable cure of the neighbouring village, and the friend of Don Antonio; and the hunter, seeing that I did not interpose-for at the moment I was in one of those moods of abstraction, and scarcely noticed what was going on-permitted the priest to pass out.  I was recalled to myself more by some peculiar expression which I heard Lincoln muttering after it was over than by the incidents of the scene itself.

The occurrence had rendered us all somewhat uneasy; and we resolved upon swallowing our suppers hastily, and, after pushing forward some distance, to sleep in the woods.

The tortillas were by this time ready, and the pretty Jesusita was pouring out the chocolate; so we set to work like men who had appetites.

The supper was soon despatched, but our host had some puros in the house-a luxury we had not enjoyed lately; and, hating to hurry away from such comfortable quarters, we determined to stay and take a smoke.

We had hardly lit our cigars when Jesusita, who had gone to the door, came hastily back, exclaiming: 

“Papa-papa! hay gente fuera!” (Papa, there are people outside!)

As we sprang to our feet several shadows appeared through the open walls.  Lincoln seized his rifle and ran to the door.  The next moment he rushed back, shouting out: 

“I told yer so!” And, dashing his huge body against the back of the rancho, he broke through the cane pickets with a crash.

We were hastening to follow him when the frail structure gave way; and we found ourselves buried, along with our host and his women, under a heavy thatch of saplings and palm-leaves.

We heard the crack of our comrade’s rifle without-the scream of a victim-the reports of pistols and escopettes-the yelling of savage men; and then the roof was raised again, and we were pulled out and dragged down among the trees, and tied to their trunks and taunted and goaded, and kicked and cuffed, by the most villainous-looking set of desperadoes it has ever been my misfortune to fall among.  They seemed to take delight in abusing us-yelling all the while like so many demons let loose.

Our late acquaintance-the cure-was among them; and it was plain that he had brought the party on us.  His “reverence” looked high and low for Lincoln; but, to his great mortification, the hunter had escaped.