Upon his shoulders
were brass epaulets such as are connected only in one's
mind with the ancient chorus ladies of the light operas of
fifteen or twenty years ago. Upon his legs were some rusty
and ragged overalls. His feet were bare.
He scowled ferociously at the prisoners while his lieutenant
narrated the thrilling facts of their capture--thrilling by
embellishment.
"You are Americanos?" he asked of Bridge and Billy.
Both agreed that they were. Then Pesita turned toward
Miguel.
"Where is Villa?" he asked.
"How should I know, my general?" parried Miguel. "Who
am I--a poor man with a tiny rancho--to know of the
movements of the great ones of the earth? I did not even
know where was the great General Pesita until now I am
brought into his gracious presence, to throw myself at his feet
and implore that I be permitted to serve him in even the
meanest of capacities."
Pesita appeared not to hear what Miguel had said. He
turned his shoulder toward the man, and addressed Billy in
broken English.
"You were on your way to El Orobo Rancho, eh? Are you
acquainted there?" he asked.
Billy replied that they were not--merely looking for
employment upon an American-owned ranch or in an American
mine.
"Why did you leave your own country?" asked Pesita.
Pages:
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361