“Quite easy.  He is at present near here, in fact much nearer than he has any right to be.”  The General frowned.  “We found this spot first.  The light is excellent and the mountains, as you have seen, are wonderful for our pictures.  This is, by every rule of decency, our scenery.  Villa has no right to it.  This is our Revolution”—­the General spoke with rising animation—­“not his.  When you see the fellow, tell him from me—­or tell his manager—­that he must either move his revolution further away or, by heaven, I’ll—­I’ll use force against him.  But stop,” he checked himself.  “You wish to see Villa.  Good.  You have only to follow the straight track over the mountain there.  He is just beyond, at the little village in the hollow, El Corazon de las Quertas.”

The General shook hands and seated himself again at his work.  The interview was at an end.  We withdrew.

The next morning we followed without difficulty the path indicated.  A few hours’ walk over the mountain pass brought us to a little straggling village of adobe houses, sleeping drowsily in the sun.

There were but few signs of life in its one street—­a mule here and there tethered in the sun, and one or two Mexicans drowsily smoking in the shade.

One building only, evidently newly made, and of lumber, had a decidedly American appearance.  Its doorway bore the sign GENERAL OFFICES OF THE COMPANY, and under it the notice KEEP OUT, while on one of its windows was painted GENERAL MANAGER and below it the legend NO ADMISSION, and on the other, SECRETARY’S OFFICE:  GO AWAY.

We therefore entered at once.

“General Francesco Villa?” said a clerk, evidently American.  “Yes, he’s here all right.  At least, this is the office.”

“And where is the General?” I asked.

The clerk turned to an assistant at a desk in a corner of the room.

“Where’s Frank working this morning?” he asked.

“Over down in the gulch,” said the other, turning round for a moment.  “There’s an attack on American cavalry this morning.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot,” said the chief clerk.  “I thought it was the Indian Massacre, but I guess that’s for to-morrow.  Go straight to the end of the street and turn left about half a mile and you’ll find the boys down there.”

We thanked him and withdrew.

We passed across the open plaza, and went down a narrow side road, bordered here and there with adobe houses, and so out into the open country.  Here the hills rose again and the road that we followed wound sharply round a turn into a deep gorge, bordered with rocks and sage brush.  We had no sooner turned the curve of the road than we came upon a scene of great activity.  Men in Mexican costume were running to and fro apparently arranging a sort of barricade at the side of the road.  Others seemed to be climbing the rocks on the further side of the gorge, as if seeking points of advantage.  I noticed that all were armed with rifles and machetes and presented a formidable appearance.  Of Villa himself I could see nothing.  But there was a grim reality about the glittering knives, the rifles and the maxim guns that I saw concealed in the sage brush beside the road.