He spoke in an abrupt, independent tone, but evidently he was
communicative with a purpose. He told Charles Gould that he had been
a ranchero in one of the lower valleys, far south, a neighbour of
Hernandez in the old days, and godfather to his eldest boy; one of those
who joined him in his resistance to the recruiting raid which was the
beginning of all their misfortunes. It was he that, when his compadre
had been carried off, had buried his wife and children, murdered by the
soldiers.
"Si, senor," he muttered, hoarsely, "I and two or three others, the
lucky ones left at liberty, buried them all in one grave near the ashes
of their ranch, under the tree that had shaded its roof."
It was to him, too, that Hernandez came after he had deserted, three
years afterwards. He had still his uniform on with the sergeant's
stripes on the sleeve, and the blood of his colonel upon his hands and
breast. Three troopers followed him, of those who had started in pursuit
but had ridden on for liberty. And he told Charles Gould how he and
a few friends, seeing those soldiers, lay in ambush behind some rocks
ready to pull the trigger on them, when he recognized his compadre and
jumped up from cover, shouting his name, because he knew that
Hernandez could not have been coming back on an errand of injustice and
oppression.
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