istory was in the van of the
procession that came charging up the slope with all the speed it could
muster after the journey from the town on the tip of the peninsula.

In the wagon were a drum, two fifes, a cornet, and much confusion of
voices. Bill, enthroned upon the front seat beside the driver of the
four-horse team, waved both arms exuberantly and started the song all
over again, so that they had to sing very fast indeed in order to finish
by the time they swung up to the patio and stopped.

Bill scrambled awkwardly down over the wheel and gripped the hands of
those two whose faces welcomed him without words. "Well, we got here,"
he announced, including the whole cavalcade with one sweeping gesture.
"Started before daylight, too, so we wouldn't miss none of the
doings." He tilted his head toward Dade's ear and jerked his thumb
towards the wagon. "Say! I brought the boys along, in case--" His left
eyelid lowered lazily and flew up again into its normal position as Don
Andres, his sombrero in his hand, came towards them across the patio,
smiling a dignified welcome.

Dade spoke not a word in reply, but his eyes brightened wonderfully.
There was still the element of danger, and on a larger scale than ever.
But it was heartening to have Bill Wilson's capable self to stand beside
him. Bill could handle turbulent crowds better than any man Dade had
ever seen.

They lingered, greeting acquaintances here and there among the arrivals,
until Bill was at liberty again.

"Got any greaser here that can talk white man's talk, and you can
trust?" was Bill's mild way of indicating his need of an interpreter,
when the fiesta crowd had grown to the proportions of a multitude that
buzzed like giant bees in a tree of ripe figs.

"Why? What do you want of one? Valencia will help you out, I guess."
Dade's hesitation was born of inattention rather than reluctance. He was
watching the gesticulating groups of Californians as a gambler watches
the faces of his opponents, and the little weather-signs did not
reassure him.

"Well, there's good money to be picked out of this crowd," said Bill,
pushing his hands deep into his pockets. "I can't understand their
lingo, but faces talk one language; and I don't care what's the color of
the skin. I've been reading what's wrote in their eyes and around their
mouths. I can get big odds on Jack, here, if I can find somebody to talk
for me. How about it, Jack? I've heard some say there's more t