"Whither now, my sergeant?" he inquired with a trace of pertness as he
laid a hand upon the other's pommel. "Do we search again for that
elusive Monterey? Methinks Vizcaino dreamed it in his cups." He smiled,
a flash of strong, white teeth relieving the half-weary relaxation of
his features, and Ortega turning, answered him:

"Perhaps the good St. Francis hid it from our eyes--that we might first
discover this puerto christened in his honor. We have three days to
reach the Punta de los Reyes, which Vizcaino named for the kings
of Cologne."

For a time the two rode on in silence. Then young Garvez muttered: "It
is well for Portola that your soldados love you.... Else the expedition
had not come thus far." The sergeant looked at his companion
smolderingly, but he did not speak. He knew as well as anyone that the
Governor's life was in danger; that conspiracy was in the air. And it
was for this he had taken with him all the stronger malcontents. Yes,
they loved him--whatever treachery might have brooded in their minds.
His eyes kindled with the knowledge. He led them at a good pace forward
over hill and dale, through rough and briery undergrowth, fording here
and there a stream, spurring tired horses over spans of dragging sand
until darkness made further progress impossible. But with the break of
day he was on again after a scanty meal. Just at sunrise he led his
party up to a commanding headland where he paused to rest. His winded
mount and that of Garvez panted side by side upon the crest while his
troopers, single file, picked their way up the narrow trail. Below them
was the Bay of San Francisco guarded by the swirling narrows of the
Golden Gate. And over the brown hilltops of the Contra Costa a great
golden ball of sunlight battled with the lacy mists of dawn.