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 the young Indian, as he interpreted it, Juan drew his horse under the arcade and rode in close to the fronts of the little adobe houses along the way. That moment he saw Padre Mateo at the corner of the main building, where the cart track rounded it to pass the gate. Padre Mateo was beckoning him on, frantically, the sleeve of his gown flapping as he waved his arm.

Just here, when Juan expected Cristóbal to run out between the houses, Cristóbal came galloping on horseback, yelling in the exultant triumph of his wild young soul. He was riding Juan's horse, the fleet black animal taken from Sebastian Alvitre, which he had saddled and stationed at that strategic point, his plan worked out in the quick comprehension of his agile mind. Sergeant Olivera was not four rods behind them when they swept around the corner of the great mission building and saw the unguarded gate.

Unguarded but for Padre Mateo. There that honest, rustic-faced priest stood, one leaf of the ponderous oaken gate closed, the other half-swung, ready to clamp to its fellow the second they were through. Juan saw Padre Mateo's benediction in his eyes as he rode past him, leaning low over the pommel of the saddle, Sergeant Olivera's pistol balls flying so near he seemed to feel their wind.

When Sergeant Olivera came to the gate he was obliged to pull up hard, and set his horse back in the dust to save himself being pitched over the barred gate. There was an adobe wall ten feet