"It is the camp," said Concho, gleefully; "I will myself forward to prepare them for the stranger," and before his companion could detain him, he had disappeared at a sharp canter around the curve of the trail.
Left to himself, the stranger took a more leisurely pace, which left him ample time for reflection.

Scamp as he was, there was something in the simple credulity of poor Concho that made him uneasy.

Not that his moral consciousness was touched, but he feared that Concho's companions might, knowing Concho's simplicity, instantly suspect him of trading upon it.
He rode on in a deep study.

Was he reviewing his past life?
A vagabond by birth and education, a swindler by profession, an outcast by reputation, without absolutely turning his back upon respectability, he had trembled on the perilous edge of criminality ever since his boyhood.
He did not scruple to cheat these Mexicans,--they were a degraded race,--and for a moment he felt almost an accredited agent of progress and civilization.

We never really understand the meaning of enlightenment until we begin to use it aggressively.
A few paces further on four figures appeared in the now gathering darkness of the trail.