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a stone. Below it is a second stone, a third, beneath the three an opening large enough to conceal a small bundle.
    "Use this," he says, putting back the stones, "to hide the map you will make. And also the journal you keep."
    I do not tell him that already I have found an opening in the wall, better than the one in the floor, where I now hide the journal.
    The same star shines beyond the window. Its name I should know, but do not. The sea is calm. Far below me I hear the moans of some poor wretch. Now, before my trial begins tomorrow, I can write of our meeting with Zia and Father Francisco, of the forgotten city of Chichilticale, and the old man's prophetic curse.

6
    T HERE AT THE MOUTH of the mighty River of Good Guidance, where its waters pour into the Sea of Cortés, we drank our fill and more. Still too weak to climb into the longboat, clinging to rail and rudder, we then paddled feebly toward a row of sand dunes.

    After a while, when it seemed that we would never reach the shore, friendly currents gathered us in. They bore us into a salt lagoon where long-legged birds were wading and, gently as a mother with her child, set us down.
    We rested two days beside the lagoon, gaining strength. Early on the third morning we shouldered our baggage and set out to the southeast. We went in this direction for two reasons. Directly to the east, which was the way to Cíbola or so Captain Mendoza thought, the country was broken by sea-swamps and estuaries. Of more importance was the fact that somehow we must find Juan Torres and the horses. Knowing that we had been driven northward by the storm, he would probably follow the coast in the hope of crossing our trail.
    On the morning of the fifth day, having made only nine leagues with our heavy burdens, it was decided to send Roa ahead on the chance that he would come upon a village where he could ask for help.

    It is said by the poor of Seville that good fortune is like bread—sometimes a whole loaf and sometimes none.
    This was our time of good fortune. No sooner had we encamped that afternoon than we saw smoke rising from a canyon nearby. In a short time Roa with three Indians came out to greet us and lead the way into a village of many huts, which was called Avipa.
    Good fortune was still with us.
    At the far end of the village a crowd stood in a wide circle around a mounted Spaniard. It was Juan Torres, blacksmith, armorer and keeper of Mendoza's two horses. As he saw us and spurred the roan to a gallop, the crowd of Indians scattered in all directions, letting out unearthly cries of fear.
    "I never thought to see you again," he said, swinging down from the saddle. "Yet I am in the village no more than a moment when who comes running out of a hut but Benito Roa."
    "You should not be so happy to see us," Zuñiga said. "For now we place our baggage on the roar. While you,
señor,
walk like the rest of us."
    "To walk is good," Torres said, "after the leagues I have ridden. It was like riding the length of Spain,
amigos.
"
    Torres was a small man, with a glib tongue and eyes that did not rest for long on anything. I had seldom seen
him on board the
San Pedro,
but what I had seen I had not fancied.

    "Many adventures have befallen me," he said, "of which I will tell you once I have eaten."
    "We are not without adventures ourselves," said Mendoza.
    We made camp on a stream outside the village and were brought a fine supper of rabbit roasted on a spit, small squash and lemon-colored melons which surprised the tongue with their sweetness. While we ate, a group of Indians sat outside the circle of our fire, saying nothing. Now and again one would get up and walk over to where the horses were tethered, grunt something to himself, then come back and sit in silence.
    "We will mount guard tonight," Mendoza said. "And those not guarding will sleep with their eyes open."
    The first watch was mine. The moon had risen and I was walking along the stream, matchlock on my shoulder,