In the work that now went forward Jose Sanchez took a prominent part.  For once in his life he was a person of recognized importance.  Not only was he the right hand of the owner of La Feria, but the favor of that redoubtable general, the hero of a hundred tales, rested upon his shoulders like a mantle.  Jose’s extravagant praises of the Federal commander, together with the daily presence of the military guard, forcibly brought home to the ranch-dwellers the fact that war was actually going on, and that Luis Longorio was indeed a man of flesh and blood, and no myth.  This realization caused a ripple of excitement to stir the peons’ placid lives.

And yet in the midst of his satisfaction Sanchez confessed to one trouble.  He had expected to find his cousin, Panfilo, here, and the fact that nothing whatever had been heard from him filled him with great uneasiness.  Of course he came to Alaire, who told him of seeing Panfilo at the water-hole on the day after her husband had discharged him; but that information gave Jose little comfort, since it proved nothing as to his cousin’s present whereabouts.  Alaire thought best not to tell him the full circumstances of that affair.  Believing that Panfilo would turn up at La Feria in due time, she gave little heed to Jose’s dark threats of vengeance for any injury to his relative.

The horse-breaker’s concern increased as the days passed, and to the lieutenant and members of the guard he repeated his threats.  Truly, he declared, if any evil had fallen upon his beloved cousin Panfilo, he, Jose, would exact a terrible reckoning, a revenge befitting a man of his character and a friend of Luis Longorio.

These soldiers, by the way, were something of a trial to Alaire, for they were ever in her way.  She could not ride a mile over her own pastures without the whole martial squad following at her heels.  Protest was unavailing; the lieutenant was mulishly stubborn.  He had been ordered to keep the senora in sight at all times, so he said, and that ended the matter as far as he was concerned.  His life and the lives of his six followers depended entirely upon her safety and happiness, for General Longorio was a man of his word.

Of course the lieutenant would not offend for the world—­the object of his solicitude was at liberty to tread upon his worthless old carcass—­but orders were orders, especially when they came from a certain source.  He besought Alaire to exercise forbearance toward him, and, above all, to use the extremest caution in regard to her own well-being, for if aught befell her, if even a despicable rattlesnake should rise out of the grass to sting her—­caramba!  The teniente, in that case, would better destroy himself on the spot.  Otherwise he would surely find himself, in a short time, with his back to a stone wall and his face to a firing-squad.  That was the sort of man Longorio was.