Meantime the heroic proprietor of the peaceful ox-team, whose valor
Incarnacion had so infelicitously celebrated, was walking listlessly in
the dust beside his wagon. At a first glance his slouching figure, taken
in connection with his bucolic conveyance, did not immediately suggest
a hero. As he emerged from the dusty cloud it could be seen that he was
wearing a belt from which a large dragoon revolver and hunting knife
were slung, and placed somewhat ostentatiously across the wagon seat
was a rifle. Yet the other contents of the wagon were of a singularly
inoffensive character, and even suggested articles of homely barter.
Culinary utensils of all sizes, tubs, scullery brushes, and clocks, with
several rolls of cheap carpeting and calico, might have been the wares
of some traveling vender. Yet, as they were only visible through a flap
of the drawn curtains of the canvas hood, they did not mitigate the
general aggressive effect of their owner's appearance. A red bandanna
handkerchief knotted and thrown loosely over his shoulders, a slouched
hat pulled darkly over a head of long tangled hair, which, however,
shadowed a round, comfortable face, scantily and youthfully bearded,
were part of these confusing inconsistencies.

The shadows of the team wagon were already lengthening grotesquely over
the flat, cultivated fields, which for some time had taken the place of
the plains of wild oats in the branch road into which they had turned.
The gigantic shadow of the proprietor, occasionally projected before it,
was in characteristic exaggeration, and was often obliterated by a puff
of dust, stirred by the plodding hoofs of the peaceful oxen, and swept
across the field by the strong afternoon trades. The sun sank lower,
although a still potent presence above the horizon line; the creaking
wagon lumbered still heavily along. Yet at intervals its belligerent
proprietor would start up from his slouching, silent march, break out