"You were none too soon, gentlemen," said the American Alcalde, as
he drew up before the Doctor's door. "Another company has just been
incorporated for the same location, I reckon."
"Who are they?"
"Three Mexicans,--Pedro, Manuel, and Miguel, headed by that d----d
cock-eyed Sydney Duck, Wiles."
"Are they here?"
"Manuel and Miguel, only. The others are over at Tres Pinos lally-gaging
Roscommon and trying to rope him in to pay off their whisky bills at his
grocery."
"If that's so we needn't start before sunrise, for they're sure to get
roaring drunk."
And this legitimate successor of the grave Mexican Alcaldes, having thus
delivered his impartial opinion, rode away.
Meanwhile, Concho the redoubtable, Concho the fortunate, spared neither
riata nor spur. The way was dark, the trail obscure and at times
even dangerous, and Concho, familiar as he was with these mountain
fastnesses, often regretted his sure-footed Francisquita. "Care not,
O Concho," he would say to himself, "'tis but a little while, only a
little while, and thou shalt have another Francisquita to bless thee.
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