The trail wound upward to the pass at Matias Romero, then sloped gently down towards Campeche Bay. They stopped when they reached the summit to rest their weary animals.

“Tell me, Miguel, will we reach the city by dark?”

“I cannot promise. But once out of the mountains the going will be easier because the land is very flat along the shore.”

“I am certainly hopeful of that. I am not used to the jungle and I am afraid that I do not like it all.”

“The jungle is rich and kind to those who know how to live there.”

“I wish them the best of luck. It is in the cities that I feel most at home.”

“Do you know, señor, why the tall gringos have come here to build this road?”

“They say to each other that it is to cross Mexico and connect one ocean to another.”

“And when this is done — what will they do with it?”

“I must admit that is a mystery that I have puzzled over. But I have not lost sleep over it. Sharper brains and wiser minds may know the answer. Now — do you think that we should push on?”

“The animals are rested. We will make better time now.”

Insects hummed in the heat; birds called loudly from the trees. Don Ambrosio was tired and found himself nodding off in the saddle. He woke up with a start when Miguel suddenly hissed a quick warning — and held his hand up as he pulled his donkey to a stop. He pointed.

Three men had emerged from between the trees on the far side of the clearing that they were now crossing. Two of them held long, sharp machetes; the third had an ancient musket. Don Ambrosio kicked his horse forward past the donkeys, reined it to a stop.