s one of the messengers sent to the Tenawas'
town. Not the principal, Pedrillo, but he of secondary importance,
Jose.

"Returning alone!" mutters the Mexican to himself. "What does that
mean? Where can Pedrillo be? What keeps him behind, I wonder?"

He continues wondering and conjecturing till Jose has ridden up to the
spot, when, perceiving his master, the latter dismounts and approaches
him.

In the messenger's countenance there is an expression of disappointment,
and something more. It tells a tale of woe, with reluctance to disclose
it.

"Where is Pedrillo?" is the first question asked in anxious impatience.

"Oh, _senor coronel_!" replies Jose, hat in hand, and trembling in every
joint. "Pedrillo! _Pobre Pedrillito_!"

"Well! Poor Pedrillito--what of him? Has anything happened to him?"

"Yes, your excellency, a terrible mischance I fear to tell it you."

"Tell it, sirrah, and at once! Out with it, whatever it is!"

"Alas, Pedrillo is gone!"

"Gone--whither?"

"Down the river."

"What river?"

"The Pecos."

"Gone down the Pecos? On what errand?" inquired the colonel, in
surprise.

"On no errand, your excellency."

"Then what's taken him down the Pecos? Why went he?"

"_Senor coronel_, he has not gone of his own will. It is only his dead
body that went; it was carried down by the flood."

"Drowned? Pedrillo drowned?"

"_Ay de mi_! 'Tis true, as I tell you--too true, _pobrecito_."

"How did this happen, Jose?"

"We were crossing at the ford, senor. The waters were up from a _norte_
that's just passed over the plains. The river was deep and running
rapid, like a torrent, Pedrillo's _macho_ stumbled, and was swept off.
It was as much as mine could do to keep its legs. I think he must have
got his feet stuck in the stirrups, for I could see him struggling
alongside the mule till both went under. When they came to the surface
both were drowned--dead. They floated on without making a motion,
except what the current gave them as their bodies were tossed about by
it. As I could do nothing there, I hastened here to tell you what
happened. _Pobre Pedrillito_!"

The cloud already darkening Uraga's brow grows darker as he listens to
the explanation. It has nothing to do with the death of Pedrillo, or
compassion for his fate--upon which he scarce spends a thought--but
whether there has been a miscarriage of that message of which the
drowned man was the bearer. His next interro