The brutal blacksmith and butcher, both half drunk obeyed the call--
willingly, Pedro alleged. The former used the branding-iron--already
prepared--while the latter performed his bloody office with the knife of
his trade!
Most of the guerrilleros wore masks. The leaders were all masked, and
watched the proceedings from the roof of the alcalde's house. One Pedro
knew in spite of his disguise; he knew him by his great size and red
hair: it was the _salteador_, El Zorro. Others he guessed at; but he
had no doubt it was the band of Don Rafael Ijurra--nor had we.
Had they left the rancheria before Pedro and the others came away?
Pedro thought not; he and the other victims, as soon as they got out of
the hands of the mob, had fled to the chapparal, and were making for the
American camp when met by our scouts. They were straggling along the
road one after the other; Rube had detained them by the rancho, till we
should come up.
Pedro feared that they were not all who had suffered--that there were
other victims; the alcalde, he feared, had been worse than mutilated--he
had been _murdered_.
This last information the poor fellow imparted in a whisper--at the same
time casting a sorrowful look towards Conchita. I had not the courage
to inquire further.
The question arose whether we should send back for more men, and wait
till they arrived, or advance at once to the rancheria.
The former was negatived with unanimous voice. We were strong enough,
and vengeance was impatient.