"
The sentry grunted and poked Pete in the back with his rifle, informing
him in that terse universal idiom that he could "tell it to El
Comandante."
From the outer darkness to the glare of the light in the 'dobe was a
blinding transition. Pete and Brevoort blinked at the three figures in
the main room: Arguilla, who sat at the long table, his heavy features
glistening with sweat, his broad face flushed to a dull red, had his
hand on a bottle of American whiskey, from which he had just filled his
glass. Near him sat the owner of the rancho, Ortez, a man much older,
bearded and lean, with face lined and interlined by weather and age.
At the closed door stood a sentry. From without came raucous laughter
and the singing of the soldiers. The sentry nearest Pete told Arguilla
that the Gringoes had been caught sneaking in at the back of the
hacienda.
Pete briskly corrected this statement. "We're from the Olla--about the
cattle--for your army," added Pete, no whit abashed as he proffered
this bit of flattery.
"Si! You would talk with the patron then?"--and Arguilla gestured
toward Ortez.
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