foliage, and at all times fleecy clouds could be seen drifting languidly across the slopes of the curiously wrought sierra. Finally the troops entered the rich valley of Linares. On the one hand lay wide cornfields or perhaps a thousand acres of sugarcane in a single, well-irrigated lot; on the other apple and peach orchards, orange and lemon groves with tempting gleams amidst their dark leaves, and half a mile or so of figtrees. Then came the gardens and flat houses of the town itself, a dull place, with some smiling and some tearful eyes looking out from the grated windows.[1]
Then forward again marched the troops, passing out of the valley into wild country full of chaparral and mesquite, where sometimes wolves trotted along the road ahead of them like dogs. The need of water determined the length of the daily march; but usually there was enough of it, shaded sometimes by noble cypresses dripping with Spanish moss. Once a real norther set in, and the troops choked for twenty miles in a driving cloud of dust;[2] but through it they caught glimpses of a high cliff that looked like an immense pink and yellow dome, and another cheering bit of color now and then was Señor Don So-and-so, the alcalde, dressed in white and a red sash, with silver coins all over his clothing, saddle and bridle. Usually the weather held fair, and a blanket supported by four stakes answered the purpose of a tent well enough.[3]
But the faces of the people grew dark occasionally, and once they muttered something like "Fandango poco tiempo," which signified, "You'll be fighting pretty soon." Then the soldiers cheered till they were hoarse. Fatigue and supper were forgotten. "Turn out, turn out!" was the cry. The column formed, and dashed down the hill at a double quick; but for enemy it found only the trim white cottage of a Frenchman, planted beside a rippling stream amid laden orange trees gilded by the setting sun. There had been rumors of Mexican cavalry ahead, but no cavalry could be seen;[4] and as for irregulars, both funds and arms were lacking, and the close wall of prickly pear five or ten feet high, which ran on each side of the road almost without a break for nearly two hundred miles, would have kept them off as it did the breeze. And so on January 4 Taylor and the regulars entered Victoria, a small, neat city at the foot of wooded mountains, which
