At the camp upon the bank of the Guadalupe, the embaladors were
shouting curses, commands, jokes, and civilities to one another while
they brought orderly packs out of the chaos of camp-equipment that
littered the ground.
The vaqueros were saddling their mounts and fairly bubbling with a
purely animal joy in the open; and Dade, his cigarette sending up a tiny
ribbon of aromatic smoke as if he were burning incense before the altar
of the soul of him that looked steadfastly out of his eyes, walked among
them with that intangible air of good-fellowship which is so hard to
describe, but which carries more weight among men than any degree of
imperious superiority. Valencia looked up and flashed him a smile as he
came near; and Pancho, the lean vaquero with the high beak and the
tender heart, turned to see what Valencia was smiling at and gave
instant glimpse of his own white teeth when he saw Dade behind him.
"To-day will be hot, Senor," he said. "Me, I wish we were already at
Tres Pinos."
"No, you don't," grinned Dade, "for then you would not have the Sunal
rancho before you, to build hopes upon, but behind you--and hope, they
say, is sweeter than memory, Pancho."
Pancho, being ugly to look upon, liked to be rallied upon the one
senorita in the valley whose eyes brightened at sight of him. He grinned
gratifiedly and said no more.
A faint medley of sounds blended by distance turned heads towards the
east; and presently, breasting the mustard field that lay level and
yellow to the hills, came Jose's squad of vaqueros, with Jose himself
leading the group at a pace that was recklessly headlong, his crimson
sash floating like a pennant in the breeze he stirred to life as he
charged down upon them.
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