ean out o' my head tryin' to make these Mexicans sense my
meanin'; my tongue was plaguy little use to me. But now I can talk their
lingo fust-rate; but pa, he can't talk to 'em nohow; he hain't learned
the fust word; 'n' he's ben here goin' on two years longer'n we have."

The miles seemed leagues to Felipe. Aunt Ri's drawling tones, as she
chatted volubly with young Merrill, chafed him. How could she chatter!
But when he thought this, it would chance that in a few moments more he
would see her clandestinely wiping away tears, and his heart would warm
to her again.

They slept at a miserable cabin in one of the clearings, and at early
dawn pushed on, reaching the Cahuilla village before noon. As their
carriage came in sight, a great running to and fro of people was to be
seen. Such an event as the arrival of a comfortable carriage drawn by
four horses had never before taken place in the village. The agitation
into which the people had been thrown by the murder of Alessandro had
by no means subsided; they were all on the alert, suspicious of each new
occurrence. The news had only just reached the village that Farrar had
been set at liberty, and would not be punished for his crime, and the
flames of indignation and desire for vengeance, which the aged Capitan
had so much difficulty in allaying in the outset, were bursting forth
again this morning. It was therefore a crowd of hostile and lowering
faces which gathered around the carriage as it stopped in front of the
Capitan's house.

Aunt Ri's face was a ludicrous study of mingled terror, defiance, and
contempt. "Uv all ther low-down, no-'count, beggarly trash ever I laid
eyes on," she said in a low tone to Merrill, "I allow these yere air the
wust! But I allow they'd flatten us all aout in jest abaout a minnit,
if they wuz to set aout tew! Ef she ain't hyar, we air in a scrape, I
allow."

"Oh, they're friendly enough," laughed Merrill. "They're all stirred
up, now, about the killin' o' that Injun; that's what makes 'em look
so fierce. I don't wonder! 'Twas a derned mean thing Jim Farrar did, a
firin' into the man after he was dead. I don't blame him for killin'
the cuss, not a bit; I'd have shot any man livin' that 'ad taken a good
horse o' mine up that trail. That's the only law we stock men've got
out in this country. We've got to protect ourselves. But it was a mean,
low-lived trick to blow the feller's face to pieces after he was dead;
but Jim's a rough feller, 'n