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 they must follow to Monterey, delay them two or three precious days, perhaps. But the valley was broad and densely overgrown; an army could not cover it so completely that a determined few could not pass through.

The advancing party had crossed the stony bed of the dry wash—in winter a torrent of yellow, headlong water from the hills—and was proceeding with more speed. Now Henderson glimpsed them through the bushes. Soldiers. But far from the formidable force that he had expected from the clatter and loud clash of wheels. The sight of them gave Henderson a new hope, kindled the quick fire of an audacious plan.

Henderson saw a party of three soldiers, one of them a petty officer, conducting with a four-horse team if not the identical small cannon, then its twin, that Felipe had discharged in the plaza with such sanguinary toll. The detail must have left the pueblo before midnight to be so well on the way to the summit of the pass, whither Henderson supposed they were bound, doutless to reinforce the guard stationed there to stop the march of the Americans who were believed to be coming from Monterey.

The soldiers were dusty, tired, indifferent; poor material at their best. The petty officer rode a few paces in advance, his cap pulled down to his eyes, so confident of the security of the road that he seemed to be asleep. One man rode a saddled horse in the lead team, the third sat on the am-