CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
A BRUSH WITH THE GUERILLEROS.
"Why, what was the matter, Major ?" inquired I, as the major rode up blowing like a porpoise.
"Matter!" replied he, with one of his direst imprecations; "matter, indeed! You wouldn't have me ride plump into their works, would you ?" "Works!" echoed I, in some surprise; "what do you mean by that, Major ?" "I mean works--that's all.

There's a stockade ten feet high, as full as it can stick of them." "Full of what ?" "Full of the enemy--full of rancheros.

I saw their ugly copper faces--a dozen of them at least--looking at me over the pickets; and, sure as heaven, if I had gone ten paces farther they would have riddled me like a target." "But, Major, they were only peaceable rancheros--cow-herds--nothing more." "Cow-herds! I tell you, Captain, that those two that galloped off had a sword apiece strapped to their saddles.

I saw them when I got near: they were decoys to bring us up to that stockade--I'll bet my life upon it!" "Well, Major," rejoined I, "they're far enough from the stockade now; and the best we can do in their absence will be to examine it, and see what chances it may offer to corral these mules, for, unless they can be driven into it, we shall have to return to camp empty-handed." Saying this, I moved forward with the men, the major keeping in the rear.
We soon reached the formidable stockade, which proved to be nothing more than a regular corral, such as are found on the great _haciendas de ganados_ (cattle farms) of Spanish America.

In one corner was a house, constructed of upright poles, with a thatch of palm-leaves.