LIII

As we sat down at the table I told D⁠⸺ that I wished to continue the journey the same afternoon, if it was possible. I besought him to overcome the difficulties in the way of that plan. He consulted with Lorenzo, who soon told me that the mules were in the village, and that there would be moonlight. I gave orders for our immediate departure; and in view of my decided manner, D⁠⸺ made no objection.

Shortly afterwards Lorenzo brought me a riding suit, telling me in a low voice how glad he was that we were not to spend the night in Juntas. We arranged with D⁠⸺ to pay for the transport of my baggage up to that point, and to forward it after us, and then took leave of him. We were mounted on good mules, and a boy rode behind us on another, carrying a small pair of saddlebags containing my clothes and some provisions which our host had pressed upon us.

By sunset we had ascended more than half of the Puerta slope. Whenever my mule stopped to take breath, I could only look back with satisfaction at the low ground whence we had come, and drank in with delight the stimulating air of the sierra. For the first time since my departure from London I felt that it was within my power to shorten the distance which separated me from María. The certainty that two days more would bring me to the end of my journey would have been enough to make me wear out four such mules as the one I was riding. Lorenzo, who knew the result of such eagerness on such roads, tried to make me moderate my pace somewhat, and with the justifiable pretext of showing me the way, rode in front the rest of the time we were going up the hill.

When we reached Hormigero, we were following the path by the light of the moon. I paused, for Lorenzo had leaped to the ground there, stirring up the dogs at the house as he did so. He leaned against my mule’s neck, and said to me, smiling: “Do you think it would be a good thing to sleep here? They are good people, and have pasture for the animals.”

“Don’t be lazy,” I replied. “I am not sleepy, and the mules are fresh.”

“Don’t be anxious,” he said, holding my stirrup for me to dismount; “all I want is to examine these traitors for fear that they will give out on our hands, they are such fat fellows. Justo is coming to Juntas with my mules,” he continued, loosening the cinch on mine, “and, according to that boy we met at Puerta, ought to put up tonight at Santana, unless he gets as far as Hojas. Wherever we meet him, we will take chocolate and sleep a minute. Does that plan suit you?”

“Of course. We must get to Cali by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Not quite so soon. We shall be getting into San Francisco at about seven, but only by going at my gait; otherwise we may be thankful to get as far as San Antonio.”

Busy while he was speaking, he bathed the mules’ loins with spirits. Then he lit a cigar, threw a rebuke at the boy who was getting behind, because, he said, his mule was slow: and we resumed our journey, the curs at the house barking maledictions at us.

Although the road was good⁠—that is to say, dry⁠—we could not reach Hojas until after ten. Upon a level spot at the top of the ridge was a bit of white canvas. Lorenzo scrutinized the mules which were grazing along the edges of the path, and said, “Justo is here, for there go Tamborero and Frontino, and they never stray.”

“Who are they?” I asked him.

“Oh, mules of mine.”

Deep silence was over the encampment of mule-drivers. A cold wind blew down through the ravines of the adjoining mountain slope, brightening up at times the dying embers of two fires near the tent. Close to one of them a black dog was curled up, who growled as he perceived us, and barked when he saw that we were strangers.

“Ave María!” shouted Lorenzo, in those words giving to the mule-drivers the salute which they are accustomed to use when arriving at an inn. “Be quiet, Barbillas!” he added, speaking to the dog, and dismounting.

A tall and thin mulatto came out from among the tobacco-sacks which closed up the two sides of the canvas where it did not reach the ground. It was the head-driver, Justo.

“Holloa, ’ñor Lorenzo!” he said to his employer, as he recognized him, and added, “Isn’t this boy Efraín?”

We returned his greeting⁠—Lorenzo with a thump on the back and a jest, I as heartily as my stiffness would let me.

“Dismount,” continued Justo, “you’ve got some tired mules there.”

“Yours must be the tired ones,” replied Lorenzo; “for they travel at an ant’s pace.”

“You’ll soon see that they don’t. But what are you doing riding at this time of night?”

“Getting over the ground while you are snoring. Leave off your talking, and have your guide poke up the fire and make us some chocolate.”

The other mule-drivers had awakened, as had also the negro boy who was to rekindle the fire. Justo lighted a candle-end and stuck it in a banana hollowed out for the purpose. Then he spread out on the ground a packing-skin for me to sit on.

“How far are you going tonight?” he asked, while Lorenzo was taking out of his saddlebags some food to go with the chocolate.

“To Santana,” replied the latter. “How are the young she-mules? García’s boy told me, as we left Juntas, that the bay one had given out on your hands.”

“She is the only cheat, but got here little by little.”

“You mustn’t make them carry heavy bales.”

“As if I would be so rash! But the she-devils are coming out all right. The cream-color, I must say, played me the very deuce of a trick in Santarosa. Never was such a slow-going beast⁠—and vicious! But she had to give in. She brought the provisions all the way from Platanares.”

The pot of boiling chocolate now appeared, and the mule-drivers hastened to offer us the gourd-cups from their belts, that we might partake of it.

“So help me!” said Justo, while I was tasting the chocolate, made and served in mule-driver style, it is true, but the most acceptable I had ever had; “who ever would have known the boy Efraín? He will use up ’ñor Lorenzo, won’t he?”

In exchange for the lukewarm water of their gourds, we gave Justo and his men some good brandy, and made ready to go on.

“It’s almost eleven,” said the head-driver, standing up to look at the moon, whose white light was bathing the high slopes of Chaucos and Bitaco.

I looked at my watch, and, in fact, it was just eleven. We took leave of the drivers, but when we were about fifty yards from their camp Justo called Lorenzo back. The latter overtook me, however, a few minutes afterwards.