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 petaté.” 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.

José 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, José 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, José’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 curé 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,”............