Perhaps a mile above Sangre de
Cristo, and directly opposite Romero's weed-grown cemetery, stood
the pumping-plant of Las Palmas, its corrugated iron roof and
high-flung chimney forming a conspicuous landmark.
Luis Longorio had just awakened from his siesta when Jose gained
admittance to his presence. The general lay at ease in the best
bed of the best house in the village; he greeted the new-comer
with a smile.
"So, my brave Jose, you wish to become a soldier and fight for
your country, eh?"
"Yes, my general."
Longorio yawned and stretched lazily. "Body of Christ! This is a
hard life. Here am I in this goatherd's hovel, hot, dirty, and
half starved, and all because of a fellow I never saw who got
himself killed. You would think this Ricardo was an Englishman
instead of a Gringo, for the fuss that is made. Who was he? Some
great jefe?
"A miserable fellow. I knew him well. Then he is indeed dead?"
"Quite dead, I believe," Longorio said, carelessly; then turning
his large, bright eyes upon the visitor, he continued, with more
interest, "Now tell me about the beautiful senora, your mistress."
Jose scowled. "She's not my mistress.
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