They
sang now, and were happy, for they were as little boys playing
hooky from school--not bad men; but rather irresponsible
children.
Once in Cuivaca they swooped down upon the drinking-place,
where, with what little money a few of them had left
they proceeded to get drunk.
Later in the day an old, dried-up Indian entered. He was
hot and dusty from a long ride.
"Hey, Jose!" cried one of the vaqueros from El Orobo
Rancho; "you old rascal, what are you doing here?"
Jose looked around upon them. He knew them all--they
represented the Mexican contingent of the riders of El Orobo.
Jose wondered what they were all doing here in Cuivaca at
one time. Even upon a pay day it never had been the rule of
El Orobo to allow more than four men at a time to come to
town.
"Oh, Jose come to buy coffee and tobacco," he replied. He
looked about searchingly. "Where are the others?" he asked,
"--the gringos?"
"They have ridden after Esteban," explained one of the
vaqueros. "He has run off with Senorita Harding."
Jose raised his eyebrows as though this was all news.
"And Senor Grayson has gone with them?" he asked. "He
was very fond of the senorita."
"Senor Grayson has run away," went on the other speaker.
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