His voice trembled with anger, but his hand was steady and the Mexicans did not deceive themselves.
"Ha, _uno Tejano_!" murmured the men who stood about, and one or two who had started to climb the fence thought better of it and dropped back to the ground.
Bud knew the fate of several men who had proclaimed themselves Americans to the _insurrectos_--boastfully done, it was said to be the quickest way there was of drawing a Mexican bullet. But to be a Texan was different--somehow the very name suggested trouble to their minds and an Alamo fight to the death. Hooker saw that he had made an impression, and he was not slow to follow it up.
"If you need a horse," he said to the general, "let your man go up that arroyo and he will find one hobbled on the flat. Then give me your receipt for two hundred dollars gold and I will contribute a saddle."
It was a reasonable concession, under the circumstances, and, best of all, it saved the general's face. The hideous frown with which he had regarded the American changed suddenly to a look of pompous pride. He jerked an imperious head at his ragged retainer and drew forth his receipt-book with a flourish.
While he waited for the horse to appear he turned upon his snooping men and drove them to their mounts with curses. Evidently it was no sinecure to command in the army of the liberation, and the veiled mutterings of his followers showed that they were little better than tigers in leash.
Mounted upon horses, mules, and even burros, armed with every conceivable weapon from a musket to standard repeating rifles, they were a tatterdemalion army, more fit for "treason, strategems, and spoils" than the sterner duties of war.
Bud looked them over closely, well satisfied to have his back against a wall, and when the low-browed retainer came hurrying back with the horse he quickly took the worthless receipt and watched them on their way. Then, as the last camp-follower disappeared, he ran for his saddle and rifle and within a minute he was mounted and away.
There were rebels below him--very likely there were more to come--the only safe place for Copper Bottom was over the hills at Fortuna. Without stopping for path or trail he headed straight north-west over the ridges, riding as the cowboys do when they rake the range for cattle. Hardly had he topped the first high crest when he came in sight of Amigo, loaded down with his cartridge-belts and carrying his heavy Mauser.