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CHAPTER VII. IN PESITA'S CAMP
PESITA was a short, stocky man with a large, dark mustache. He attired himself
after his own ideas of what should constitute the uniform of a general--ideas
more or less influenced and modified by the chance and caprice of fortune.
At the moment that Billy, Bridge, and Miguel were dragged into his presence his
torso was enwrapped in a once resplendent coat covered with yards of gold braid.
Upon his shoulders were brass epaulets such as are connected only in one's mind
with the ancient chorus ladies of the light operas of fifteen or twenty years ago.
Upon his legs were some rusty and ragged overalls. His feet were bare.
He scowled ferociously at the prisoners while his lieutenant narrated the thrilling
facts of their capture--thrilling by embellishment.
"You are Americanos?" he asked of Bridge and Billy.
Both agreed that they were. Then Pesita turned toward Miguel.
"Where is Villa?" he asked.
"
How should I know, my general?" parried Miguel. "Who am I--a poor man with a
tiny rancho--to know of the movements of the great ones of the earth? I did not
even know where was the great General Pesita until now I am brought into his
gracious presence, to throw myself at his feet and implore that I be permitted to
serve him in even the meanest of capacities."
Pesita appeared not to hear what Miguel had said. He turned his shoulder toward
the man, and addressed Billy in broken English.
"You were on your way to El Orobo Rancho, eh? Are you acquainted there?" he
asked.
Billy replied that they were not--merely looking for employment upon an
American-owned ranch or in an American mine.
"
Why did you leave your own country?" asked Pesita. "What do you want here in
Mexico?"
"
Well, ol' top," replied Billy, "you see de birds was flyin' south an' winter was in de
air, an a fat-head dick from Chi was on me trail--so I ducks."
"
"
Ducks?" queried Pesita, mystified. "Ah, the ducks--they fly south, I see."
Naw, you poor simp--I blows," explained Billy.
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