A Confidence Well Rewarded.

Only a short interval, a score of seconds elapses, when the door, once more opening, admits the expected visitor. The adjutant, after ushering him into the room, withdraws, and commences pacing to and fro in the patio.

Colonel Gil Uraga feels very much inclined to laugh as he contemplates the new-comer, and reflects on the precautions he has taken. A poor devil of an Indian peon, in coarse woollen tilma, tanned sheepskin trousers reaching only to the knee, bare legs below, guaraches upon his feet, and a straw hat upon his head; his long black hail hanging unkempt over his shoulders; his mien humble and looks downcast, like all of his tribe. Yet it might be seen that, on occasion, his eyes could flash forth a light, indicative of danger—a fierce, fiery light, such as may have shone in the orbs of his ancestors when they rallied around Guatimozin, and with clubs and stakes beat back the spears and swords of their Spanish invaders.

At the entrance of this humble personage, into the splendidly furnished apartment, his first act is to pull off his tattered straw hat, and make lowly obeisance to the gorgeously attired officer he sees sitting behind the table.

Up to this time Uraga has presumed him to be a perfect stranger, but when the broad brim of the sombrero no longer casts its shade over his face, and his eyelids become elevated through increasing confidence, the colonel starts to his feet with an exclamatory speech that tells of recognition.

“Carrambo! You are Manuel—mule driver for Don Valerian Miranda?”

“Si, Señor; a servido de V (Yes, Sir; at your Excellency’s service),” is the reply meekly spoken, and accompanied with a second sweep of the straw hat—as gracefully as if given by a Chesterfield.

At sight of this old acquaintance, a world of thought rushes crowding through the brain of Gil Uraga—conjectures, mingled with pleasant anticipations.

For it comes back to his memory, that at the time of Colonel Miranda’s escape, some of his domestics went off with him, and he remembers that Manuel was one of them. In the Indian bending so respectfully before him he sees, or fancies, the first link of a chain that may enable him to trace the fugitives. Manuel should know something about their whereabouts? And the ci devant mule driver is now in his power for any purpose—be it life or death.

There is that in the air and attitude of the Indian which tells him there will be no need to resort to compulsory measures. The information he desires can be obtained without, and he determines to seek it by adopting the opposite course.

“My poor fellow,” he says, “you look distressed—as if you had just come from off a toilsome journey. Here, take a taste of something to recuperate your strength; then you can let me know what you’ve got to say. I presume you’ve some communication to make to me, as the military commandant of the district. Night or day, I am always ready to give a hearing to those who bring information that concerns the welfare of the State.”

While speaking the colonel has poured out a glass of the distilled mezcal juice. This the peon takes from his hand, and, nothing loth, spills the liquor between his two rows of white glittering teeth.

Upon his stomach, late unused to it, the fiery spirit produce! an effect almost instantaneous; and the moment after he becomes freely communicative—if not so disposed before. But he has been; therefore the disclosures that follow are less due to the alcohol than to a passion every whit as inflammatory. He is acting under the stimulus of a revenge, terrible and long restrained.

“I’ve missed you from about here, Manuel,” says the colonel, in kindly tones, making his approaches with skill. “Where have you been all this while, my good man?”

“With my master,” is the peon’s reply.

“Ah, indeed! I thought your master had gone clear out of the country?”

“Out of the settled part of it only, señor.”

“Oh! he is still, then, within Mexican territory! I am glad to hear that. I was very sorry to think we’d lost such a good citizen and patriot as Don Valerian Miranda. True, he and I differ in our views as regards government; but that’s nothing, you know, Manuel. Men may be bitter political enemies, yet very good friends. By-the-way, where is the colonel now?”

Despite his apparent stolidity, the Indian is not so stupid as to be misled by talk like this. With a full knowledge of the situation—forced upon him by various events—the badinage of the brilliant militari............