A few of them still remained in Guadalajara, drifting from the saloon to the restaurant, and from the restaurant to the Plaza, relics of a former generation, standing for a different order of things, absolutely idle, living God knew how, happy with their cigarette, their guitar, their glass of mescal, and their siesta.

The centenarian remembered Fremont and Governor Alvarado, and the bandit Jesus Tejeda, and the days when Los Muertos was a Spanish grant, a veritable principality, leagues in extent, and when there was never a fence from Visalia to Fresno.

Upon this occasion, Presley offered the old man a drink of mescal, and excited him to talk of the things he remembered.

Their talk was in Spanish, a language with which Presley was familiar.
"De La Cuesta held the grant of Los Muertos in those days," the centenarian said; "a grand man.

He had the power of life and death over his people, and there was no law but his word.