Marto rushed to the curtained window only to find iron bars and the glint of a gun barrel. Isidro held the gun, and admonished the storming captive with the gentle fatalism of the Indian.

"It is done under orders of the major-domo, senor. There is no other way. If your words are hard or rough to the ears of the lady, there is a bullet for you, and a hidden place for your grave. This is the only word to you, senor. It is given me to say."

"But—Gods, saints, and devils—hearken you to me!" stormed the man. "This is a fool's joke! It can't go on! I must be back at sunrise—I must!"

"You will see many suns rise through these bars if the padrone so pleases," murmured Isidro gently. "That is not for us to decide."

"To hottest hell with your padrone and you! Bring him here to listen to me. This is no affair of a man and a woman,—curse her witch eyes and their green fires! There is work afoot,—big work, and I must get back to Soledad. You know what goes over the trail to Soledad,—every Indian knows! It is the cache of ammunition with which to save the peon and Indian slave,—you know that! You know the revolutionists must get it to win in Sonora. A trap is set for tomorrow, a big trap! I must be there to help spring it. To you there will be riches and safety all your life for my freedom—on the cross I will swear that. I——"

"Senor, nothing is in my power, and of your traps I know nothing. I am told you set a trap for a lady who is in grief and your own feet were caught in it. That is all I know of traps," said Isidro.

Kit patted the old man on the shoulder for cleverness, even while he wondered at the ravings of the would-be abductor. Then he crept nearer the window where he could see the face of the prisoner clearly, and without the overshadowing hat he had worn on entrance. The face gave him something to think about, for it was that of one of the men who had ridden up to the Yaqui spring the day he had found Tula and Miguel in the desert. How should this rebel who rode on secret trails with Ramon Rotil be head man at Soledad for Rotil's enemy? And what was the trap?

"Look well at that man, Isidro," he whispered, "and tell me if such a man rode here to Mesa Blanca with General Rotil."

"No such man was here, senor, but this man was foreman at Soledad before the Deliverer came over the eastern range to Mesa Blanca. Also the general and Don Jose Perez are known as enemies;—the friend of one cannot be the friend of another."

"True enough, Isidro, but that does not help me to understand the trap set. Call your wife and learn if I can see the Dona Jocasta."

Tula had crept up beside them, and touched him on the arm.

"She asks for you, and sadness is with her very much. She watches us in fear, and cannot believe that the door is open for her."

"If that is her only trouble we can clear it away for her, pronto," he stated, and they entered the patio.

"It is not her only trouble, but of the other she does not speak. Valencia weeps to look at her."

"Heavens! Is she as bad looking as that?"

"No, it is another reason," stated the girl stolidly. "She is a caged humming bird, and her wings have broken."

Kit Rhodes never forgot that first picture of their kidnaped guest, for he agreed with Clodomiro who saw in her the living representation of old biblical saints.

The likeness was strengthened by the half Moorish drapery over her head, a black mantilla which, at sound of a man's step, she hurriedly drew across the lower part of her face. Her left arm and shoulder was bare, and Valencia bent over her with a strip of old linen for bandage, but the eyes of Dona Jocasta were turned half shrinking, half appraising to the strange Americano. It was plain to her that conquering men were merely the owners of women.

"It is good you come, senor," said Valencia. "Here is a wound and the bullet under the skin. I have waited for Isidro to help but he is slow on the way."

"He is busy otherwise, but I will call him unless my own help will serve here. That is for the senora to say."

The eyes of the girl,—she was not more,—never left his face, and above the lace scarf she peered at him as through a mask.

"It is you who sent messenger to save an unhappy one you did not know? You are the Americano of the letter?"

"At your service, senora. May that service begin now?"

"It began when that letter was written, and this room made ready," she said. "And if you can find the bullet it will end the unhappiness of this good woman. She weeps for the little bit of lead. It should have struck a heart instead of a shoulder."

"Ah, senora!" lamented Valencia, "weep like a woman over sorrows. It is a better way than to mock."

"God knows it is not for me to mock!" breathed the soft voice bitterly. "And if the senor will lend you his aid, I will again be in his debt."

Without further words Kit approached, and Valencia drew the cover from the shoulder and indicated where the ball could be felt.

"I cannot hold the shoulder and press the flesh there without making much pain, too much," stated Valencia, "but it must come out, or there will be trouble."

"Sure there will," asserted Kit, "and if you or Tula will hold the arm, and Dona Jocasta will pardon me——"

He took the white shoulder in his two hands and gently traced the direction of the bullet. It had struck in the back and slanted along the shoulder blade. It was evidently fired from a distance and little force left. Marto had been much nearer the pursuer, and his was a clean cut wound through the upper arm.

The girl turned chalky white as he began slowly to press the bullet backward along its trail, but she uttered no sound, only a deep intake of breath that was half a sob, and the cold moisture of sickening pain stood in beads on her face.

All of the little barriers with a stranger were forgotten, and the shielding scarf fell away from her face and bosom, and even with the shadowed emerald eyes closed, Kit Rhodes thought her the most perfect thing in beauty he had ever seen.

He hated himself for the pain he was forcing on her as he steadily followed the bullet upward and upward until it lay in his hand.

She did not faint, as he feared she might, but fell back in the chair, while Valencia busied herself with the ointment and bandage, and Tula, at a word from Kit, poured her a cup of wine.

"Drink," he said, "if only a little, senora. Your strength has served you well, but it needs help now."

She swallowed a little of the wine, and drew the scarf about her, and after a little opened her eyes and looked at him. He smiled at her approvingly, and offered her the bullet.

"It may be you will want it to go on some shrine to a patron saint, senora," he suggested, but she did not take it, only looked at him steadily with those wonderful eyes, green with black lashes, shining out of her marble Madonna-like face.

"My patron saint traveled the trail with you, Senor Americano, and the bullet is witness. Let me see it."

He gave it into her open hand where she balanced it thoughtfully.

"So near the mark, yet went aside," she murmured. "Could that mean there is yet any use left in the world for me?"

"Beauty has its own use in the world, senora; that is why rose gardens are planted."

"True, senor, though I belong no more to the gardens;—no, not to gardens, but to the desert. Neither have I place nor power today, and I may never have, but I give back to you this witness of your great favor. If a day comes when I, Jocasta, can give favor in return, bring or send this witness of the ride tonight. I will redeem it."

"The favor is to me, and calls for no redemption," said Kit awkward at the regal poise of her, and enchanted by the languorous glance and movement of her. Even the reaching out of her hand made him think of Tula's words, 'a humming bird,' if one could imagine such a jewel-winged thing weighted down with black folds of mourning.

"A caged humming bird with broken wings!" and that memory brought another thought, and he fumbled the bullet, and gave the first steady look into those emerald, side-glancing eyes.

"But—there is a compact I should appreciate if Dona Jocasta will do me the favor,—and it is that she sets value on the life that is now her very own, and, that she forgets not to cherish it."

"Ah-h!" She looked up at him piteously a moment, and then the long lashes hid her eyes, and her head was bent low. "Sinful and without shame have I been! and they have told you of the knife I tried to use—here!"

She touched her breast with her slender ring-laden hand, and her voice turned mocking.

"But you see, Senor Americano, even Death will not welcome me, and neither steel nor lead will serve me!"

"Life will serve you better, senora."

"Not yet has it done so, and I am a woman—old—old! I am twenty, senor, and refused of Death! Jocasta Benicia they named me. Jocasta Perdida it should have been to fit the soul of me, so why should I promise a man whom I do not know that I will cherish my life when I would not promise a padre? Answer me that, senor whose name has not been told me!"

"But you will promise, senora," insisted Kit, smiling a little, though thrilled by the sadness of life's end at twenty, "and as for names, if you are Dona Perdida I may surely name myself Don Esperenzo, for I have not only hope, but conviction, that life is worth living!"

"To a man, yes, and Mexico is a man's land."

"Ay, it must be yours as well,—beautiful that thou art!" murmured Valencia adoringly. "You should not give yourself a name of sadness, for this is our Senor El Pajarito, who is both gay and of honesty. He,—with God,—is your protection, and harm shall not be yours."

Dona Jocasta reached out and touched kindly the bent head of the Indian woman.

"As you will, mother. With hope and a singer for a shield, even a prison would not be so bad, El Pajarito, eh? Do you make songs—or sing them, senor?"

"Neither,—I am only a lucky bluff. My old partner and I used to sing fool things to the mules, and as we could out-bray the burros my Indio friends are kind and call it a singing;—as easy as that is it to get credit for talent in this beneficent land of yours! But—the compact, senora?"

Her brows lifted wearily, yet the hint of a smile was in her eyes.

"Yes, since you ask so small a thing, it is yours. Jocasta makes compact with you; give me a wish that the life is worth it."

"Sure I will," said Kit holding out his hand, but she shrunk perceptibly, and her hand crept out of sight in the black draperies.

"You have not, perhaps, ever sent a soul to God without absolution?" she asked in a breathless hushed sort of voice. "No senor, the look of you tells me you have not been so unpardonable. Is it not so?"

"Why, yes," returned Kit, "it hasn't been a habit with me to start anyone on the angels' flight without giving him time to bless himself, but even at that——"

"No, no!" as he took a step nearer. "The compact is ours without handclasp. The hand of Jocasta is the hand of the black glove, senor."

He looked from her to the two Indians, the old woman kneeling beside Jocasta and crossing herself, and Tula, erect and slender against the adobe wall, watching him stolidly. There was no light on the subject from either of them.

"Pardon, I'm but a clumsy Americano, not wise to your meanings," he ventured, "and beautiful hands look better without gloves of any color."

"It may be so, yet I have heard that no matter how handsome a headsman may be, he wears a black mask, and hands are not stretched out to touch his."

"Senora!"

"Senor, we arrive at nothing when making speech of me," she said with a little sigh. "Our ride was hard, and rest is best for all of us. Our friend here tells me there is supper, and if you will eat with me, we will know more of how all this has come about. It is strange that you, a lone Americano in this land, should plan this adventure like a bandit, and steal not only the major-domo of Soledad, but the woman he would steal!"

"It was so simple that the matter is not worth words except as concerns Clodomiro, who was the only one in danger."

"Ah! if ever they had suspected him! You have not seen that band of men, they are terrible! Of all the men of Jose Perez they are the blackest hearts, and if it had not been for the poor padre——"

"Tell me of him," said Kit who perceived she was willing enough to speak plainly of all things except herself. "He is a good man?"

"A blessing to me, senor!" she asserted earnestly as they were seated at the table so carefully prepared by Valencia. "Look you! I broke away from those animals and in a little mountain village,—such a one as I was born in, senor!—I ran to the altar of the little chapel, and that priest was a shield for me. Against all the men he spoke curses if they touched me. Well, after that there was only one task to do, and that was to carry him along. I think they wanted to kill him, and had not the courage. And after all that I came away from Soledad without saving him;—that was bad of me, very bad! I—I think I went wild in the head when I saw the men play games of cards, and I to go to the winner! Not even a knife for food would they give me, for they knew——"

She shuddered, and laid down quickly the knife she had lifted from beside her plate, and glanced away when she found him regarding her.

"It has been long weeks since I was trusted as you are trusting me here," she continued quietly. "See! On my wrists were chains at first."

"And this Marto Cavayso did that?" demanded Kit as she showed her scarred slender wrist over which Valencia had wept.

"No, it was before Cavayso—he is a new man—so I think this was when Conrad was first helping to plan me as an insane woman and have me put secretly to prison, but some fear struck Jose Perez, and that plan would not serve. In the dark of night I was half smothered in wraps and put in an ox-cart of a countryman and hauled north out of the city. Two men rode as guard. They chained me in the day and slept, traveling only in the night until they met Cavayso and his men. After that I remember little, I was so weary of life! One alcalde asked about me and Cavayso said I was his wife who had run away with a gypsy fiddler, and he was taking me home to my children. Of what use to speak? A dozen men would have added their testimony to his, and had sport in making other romance against me. They were sullen because they thought I had jewels hid under my clothes, and Cavayso would not let them search me. It has been hell in these hills of Sonora, Senor Pajarito."

"That is easy to understand," agreed Kit wondering at her endurance, and wondering at the poise and beauty of her after such experience. There was no trace of nervousness, or of tears, or self-pity. It was as if all this of which she told had been a minor affair, dwarfed by some tragic thing to which he had no key.

"So, Conrad was in this plot against you?" he asked, and knew that Tula, standing back of his chair had missed no word. "You mean the German Conrad who is manager of Granados ranches across the border?"

"Senor, I mean the beast whose trail is red with the blood of innocence, and whose poison is sinking into the veins of Mexico like a serpent, striking secretly, now here, now there, until the blood of the land is black with that venom. Ay! I know, senor;—the earth is acrawl with the German lizards creeping into the shining sun of Mexico! This so excellent Don Adolf Conrad is only one, and Jose Perez is his target—I am the one to know that! A year ago, and Don Jose was a man, with faults perhaps; but who is perfect on this earth? Then came Don Adolf riding south and is very great gentleman and makes friends. His home in Hermosillo becomes little by little the house of Perez, and little by little Perez goes on crooked paths. That is true! First it was to buy a ship for coast trade, then selling rifles in secret where they should not be sold, then—shame it is to tell—men and women were sold and carried on that ship like cattle! Not rebels, senor, not prisoners of battle,—but herdsmen and ranch people, poor Indian farmers whom only devils would harm! Thus it was, senor, until little by little Don Adolf knew so much that Jose Perez awoke to find he had a master, and a strong one! It was not one man alone who caught him in the net; it was the German comrades of Don Adolf who never forgot their task, even when he was north in the States. They needed a man of name in Hermosillo, and Jose Perez is now that man. When the whip of the German cracks, he must jump to serve their will."

"But Jose Perez is a strong man. Before this day he has wiped many a man from his trail if the man made him trouble," ventured Kit.

"You have right in that, senor, but I am telling you it is a wide net they spread and in that net he is snared. Also his household is no longer his own. The Indian house servants are gone, and outlaw Japanese are there instead. That is true and their dress is the dress of Indians. They are Japanese men of crimes, and German men gave aid that they escape from justice in Japan. It is because they need such men for German work in Mexico, men who have been taught German and dare not turn rebel. Not an hour of the life of Jose Perez is free from the eyes of a spy who is a man of crimes. And there are other snares. They tell him that he is to be a governor by their help;—that is a rich bait to float before the eyes of a man! His feet are set on a trail made by Adolph Conrad,—He is trapped, and there is no going back. Poison and shame and slavery and death have come upon that trail like black mushrooms grown in a night, and what the end of the trail will be is hid in the heart of God."

"But your sympathy is with those women in slavery there in the south, and not with the evil friend of Jose Perez?" asked Kit.

"Can you doubt, senor? Am I not as truly a victim as they? I have not worked under a whip, but there are other punishments—for a woman!"

Her voice dropped almost to a whisper, and she rested her chin on her hand, staring out into the shadows of the patio, oblivious of them all. Tula gazed at her as if fascinated, and there was a difference in her regard. That she was linked in hate against Conrad gave the Indian girl common cause with the jewel-eyed woman whose beauty had been the boast of a province. Kit noticed it and was vastly comforted. The absolute stolidity of Tula had left him in doubt as to the outcome if his little partner had disapproved of his fascinating protegee. He knew the thing she wanted to know, and asked it.

"Senora, the last band of Indian slaves from Sonora were driven from the little pueblo of Palomitas at the edge of this ranch. And there are sisters and mothers here with sick hearts over that raid. Can you tell me where those women were sent?"

"Which raid was that, and when?" asked Jocasta arousing herself from some memory in which she had been submerged. "Pardon, senor, I am but a doleful guest at supper, thinking too deeply of that which sent me here. Your question?"

He repeated it, and she strove to remember.

"There were many, and no one was told whence they came. It was supposed they were war prisoners who had to be fed, and were being sent to grow their own maize. If it were the last band then it would be the time Conrad had the wound in the face, here, like a knife thrust, and that——"

"That was the time," interrupted Kit eagerly. "If you can tell us where those people were sent you will prove the best of blessings to Mesa Blanca this night."

She smiled sadly at that and looked from him to Tula, whom she evidently noted for the first time.

"It is long since the word of blessing has been given to Jocasta," she said wistfully. "It would be a comfort to earn it in this house. But that band was not sent away,—not far. Something went wrong with the boat down the coast, I forgot what it was, but there was much trouble, and the Indians were sent to a plantation of the General Terain until the boat was ready. I do not know what plantation, except that Conrad raged about it. He and Don Jose had a quarrel, very terrible! That wound given to him by a woman made him very difficult; then the quarrel ended by them drinking together too much. And after that many things happened very fast, and—I was brought north."

"And the Indians?"

"Senor, I do not think anyone thought again of those Indians. They are planting maize or cane somewhere along the Rio Sonora."

Tula sank down weeping against the wall, while Valencia stroked her hair and patted her. Dona Jocasta regarded her curiously.

"To be young enough to weep like that over a sorrow!" she murmured wistfully. "It is to envy her, and not mourn over her."

"But this weeping is of joy," explained Valencia. "It is as the senor says, a blessing has come with you over the hard road. This child was also stolen, and was clever to escape. Her mother and her sister are yet there in that place where the maize is planted. If the boat has not taken them, then they also may get back. It is a hope!"

"Poor little one! and now that I could make good use of power, it is no longer mine," said Jocasta, looking at Kit regretfully. "A young maid with courage to escape has earned the right to be given help."

"She will be given it," he answered quietly, "and since your patience has been great with my questions, I would ask more of this Cavayso we have trapped tonight. He is raging of curious things there across the patio. Isidro holds a gun on him that he subdue his shouts, and his offer is of rich bribes for quick freedom. He is as mad to get back to Soledad as he was to leave it, and he tells of a trap set there for someone. It concerns ammunition for the revolutionists."

"No, not for them, but for trade in the south," said Jocasta promptly. "Yes, Soledad has long been the place for hiding of arms. It was the task of Don Adolf to get them across the border, and then a man of Don Jose finds a safe trail for them. Sometimes a German officer from Tucson is of much help there in the north. I have heard Don Jose and Conrad laugh about the so easily deceived Americanos,—your pardon, senor!"

"Oh, we are used to that," agreed Kit easily, "and it is quite true. We have a whole flock of peace doves up there helping the Hohenzollern game. What was the officer's name?"

"A name difficult and long," she mused, striving to recall it. "But that name was a secret, and another was used. He was known only as a simple advocate—James, the name; I remember that for they told me it was the English for Diego, which was amusing to me,—there is no sound alike in them!"

"That's true, there isn't," said Kit, who had no special interest in any advocate named James. "But to get back to the man in the cell over there and the ammunition, may I ask if he confided to you anything of that place of storage? I mean Cavayso?"

"No, senor; and for a reason of the best. He knows nothing, and all his days and nights were spent searching secretly for the entrance to that dungeon,—if it is a dungeon! He thought I should know, and made threats against me because I would not tell. Myself, I think Jose Perez tells no one that hiding place, not even Conrad, though Conrad has long wanted it! I told Don Jose that if he told that he was as good as a dead man, and I believe it. But now," and she shook her head fatefully, "now he is sure to get it!"

"But he swears he must get back to Soledad by sunrise for a trap is set. A trap for whom?" persisted Kit.

Dona Jocasta shook her head uncomprehendingly.

"God forbid he should get free to put those wolves on my track; then indeed I would need a knife, senor! He held them back from me on the trail, but now he would not hold them back."

"But the trap, senora?" repeated the puzzled Kit. "That man was in earnest,—dead in earnest! He did not know I was listening, his words were only for an Indian,—for Isidro. Who could he trap? Was he expecting anyone at Soledad?"

Dona Jocasta looked up with a little gasp of remembrance.

"It is true, a courier did come two days ago from the south, and Cavayso told me he meant to take me to the desert and hide me before Don Jose arrived. Also more mules and wagons came in. And Elena scolded about men who came to eat but not to work. Yes, they smoked, and talked, and talked, and waited! I never thought of them except to have a great fear. Yesterday after the lad brought me that letter I had not one thought, but to count the hours, and watch the sun. But it may be Cavayso told the truth, and that Don Jose was indeed coming. He told me he had promised Perez to lose me in the Arroya Maldioso if in no other way, and he had to manage that I never be seen again."

"Arroya Maldioso?" repeated Kit, "I don't understand."

"It is the great quicksand of Soledad, green things grow and blossom there but no living thing can cross over. It is beautiful—that little arroya, and very bad."

"I had heard of it, but forgot," acknowledged Kit, "but that is not the trap of which he is raving now. It is some other thing."

Dona Jocasta did not know. She confessed that her mind was dark and past thinking. The ways of Don Jose and Conrad were not easy for other men of different lives to understand;—there was a great net of war and scheming and barter, and Don Jose was snared in that net, and the end no man could see!

"Have you ever heard that Marto Cavayso was once a lieutenant of General Rotil?" Kit asked.

"The Deliverer!" she gasped, leaning forward and staring at him. A deep flush went over her face and receded, leaving her as deathly pale as when the bullet had been forced from the white shoulder. Her regard was curious, for her brows were contracted and there was domination and command in her eyes. "Why do you say this to me, senor? And why do you think it?"

Kit was astonished at the effect of his words, and quite as much astonished to hear anyone of the Perez household refer to Rotil as "the Deliverer."

"Senora, if you saw him ride side by side with Rotil, drinking from the same cup in the desert, would you not also think it?"

Tula rose to her feet, and moved closer to Kit.

"I too was seeing them together, senora," she said. "It was at the Yaqui well; I drew the water, and they drank it. This man of the loud curses is the man."

Dona Jocasta covered her eyes with her hand, and she seemed shaken. No one else spoke, and the silence was only broken by the muffled tones of Marto in the cell, and the brief bark of Clodomiro's dog at the corral.

"God knows what may be moving forward," she said at last, "but there is some terrible thing afoot. Take me to this man."

"It may not be a pleasant thing to do," advised Kit. "This is a man's game, senora, and his words might offend, for his rage is very great against you."

"Words!" she said with a note of disdain, and arose to her feet. She swayed slightly, and Valencia steadied her, and begged her to wait until morning, for her strength was gone and the night was late.

"Peace, woman! Who of us is sure of a morning? This minute is all the time that is ours, and—I must know."

She leaned on Valencia as they crossed the patio, and Tula moved a seat outside the door of Marto's room. Kit fastened a torch in the holder of the brick pillar and opened the door without being seen, and stood watching the prisoner.

Marto Cavayso, who had been pleading with Isidro, whirled only to find the barrel of another gun thrust through the carved grill in the top of the door.

"Isidro," said Kit, "this man is to answer questions of the senora. If he is uncivil you can singe him with a bullet at your own will."

"Many thanks, senor," returned Isidro promptly. "That is a pleasant work to think of, for the talk of this shameless gentleman is poison to the air."

"You!" burst out Marto, pointing a hand at Jocasta in the corridor. "You put witchcraft of hell on me, and wall me in here with an old lunatic for guard, and now——"

Bing! A bullet from Isidro's rifle whistled past Marto's ear and buried itself in the adobe, scattering plaster and causing the prisoner to crouch back in the corner.

Jocasta regarded him as if waiting further speech, but none came.

"That is better," she said. "No one wishes to do you harm, but you need a lesson very badly. Now Marto Cavayso,—if that be your name!—why did you carry me away? Was it your own doing, or were you under orders of your General Rotil?"

"I should have let the men have you," he muttered. "I was a bewitched man, or you never would have traveled alive to see Soledad. Rotil? Do not the handsome women everywhere offer him love and comradeship? Would he risk a good man to steal a woman of whom Jose Perez is tired?"

"You are not the one to give judgment," said a strange voice outside the barred window.—"That I did not send you to steal women is very true, and the task I did send you for has been better done by other men in your absence."

Cavayso swore, and sat on the bed, his head in his hands. Outside the window there were voices in friendly speech, that of Clodomiro very clear as he told his grandfather the dogs did not bark but once, because some of the Mesa Blanca boys were with the general, who was wounded.

Kit closed and bolted again the door of Cavayso, feeling that the guardianship of beauty in Sonora involved a man in many awkward and entangling situations. If it was indeed Rotil——

But a curious choking moan in the corridor caused him to turn quickly, but not quickly enough.

Dona Jocasta, who had been as a reed of steel against other dangers, had risen to her feet as if for flight at sound of the voice, and she crumpled down on the floor and lay, white as a dead woman, in a faint so deep that even her heartbeat seemed stilled.

Kit gathered her up, limp as a branch of willow, and preceded by Tula with the torch, bore her back to the chamber prepared for her. Valencia swept back the covers of the bed, and with many mutterings of fear and ejaculations to the saints, proceeded to the work of resuscitation.

"To think that she came over that black road and held fast to a heart of bravery,—and now at a word from the Deliverer, she falls dead in fear! So it is with many who hear his name; yet he is not bad to his friends. Every Indian in Sonora is knowing that," stated Valencia.



CHAPTER XIV

THE HAWK OF THE SIERRAS

"That is what we get, Tula, by gathering beauty in distress into our outfit," sighed Kit. "She seems good foundation for a civil war here. Helen of Troy,—a lady of an eastern clan!—started a war on less, and the cards are stacked against us if they start scrapping. When Mexican gentry begin hostilities, the innocent bystander gets the worst of it,—especially the Americano. So it is just as well the latest Richard in the field does not know whose bullet hit him in the leg, and brought his horse down."

Tula, who since their entrance to the civilized surroundings of Mesa Blanca, had apparently dropped all initiative, and was simply a little Indian girl under orders, listened impassively to this curious monologue. She evidently thought white people use many words for a little meaning.

"The Deliverer says will you graciously come?" she stated for the second time.

"Neither graciously, gracefully or gratefully, but I'll arrive," he conceded. "His politeness sounds ominous. It is puzzling why I, a mere trifle of an American ranch hand, should be given audience instead of his distinguished lieutenant."

"Isidro and Clodomiro are talking much with him, and the man Marto is silent, needing no guard," said Tula.

"Sure,—Rotil has the whole show buffaloed. Well, let's hope, child, that he is not a mind reader, for we have need of all the ore we brought out, and can't spare any for revolutionary subscriptions."

Kit followed Tula into the sala where a rawhide cot had been placed, and stretched on it was the man of Yaqui Spring.

One leg of his trousers was ripped up, and there was the odor of a greasewood unguent in the room. Isidro was beside him, winding a bandage below the knee. A yellow silk banda around the head of Rotil was stained with red.

But he had evidently been made comfortable, for he was rolling a cigarette and was calling Isidro "doctor." Two former vaqueros of Mesa Blanca were there, and they nodded recognition to Kit. Rotil regarded him with a puzzled frown, and then remembered, and waved his hand in salute.

"Good day, senor, we meet again!" he said. "I am told that you are my host and the friend of Senor Whitely. What is it you do here? Is it now a prison, or a hospital for unfortunates?"

"Only a hospital for you, General, and I trust a serviceable one," Kit hastened to assure him. "More of comfort might have been yours had you sent a courier to permit of preparation."

"The service is of the best," and Rotil pointed to Isidro. "I've a mind to take him along, old as he is! The boys told me he was the best medico this side the range, and I believe it. As to courier," and he grinned, "I think you had one, if you had read the message right."

"The surprises of the night were confusing, and a simple man could not dare prophesy what might follow," said Kit, who had drawn up a chair and easily fell into Rotil's manner of jest. "But I fancy if that courier had known who would follow after, he would have spent the night by preference at Soledad."

"Sure he would,—hell's fire shrivel him! That shot of his scraped a bone for me, and put my horse out of business. For that reason we came on quietly, and these good fellows listened at the window of Marto before they carried me in. It is a good joke on me. My men rounded up Perez and his German slaver at Soledad today—yesterday now!—and when we rode up the little canon to be in at the finish what did we see but an escape with a woman? Some word had come my way of a Perez woman there, and only one thought was with me, that the woman had helped Perez out of the trap as quickly as he had ridden into it! After that there was nothing to do but catch them again. No thought came to me that Marto might be stealing a woman for himself, the fool! Perez made better time than we figured on, and is a day ahead. Marto meant to hide the woman and get back in time. It's a great joke that an Americano took the woman from him. I hope she is worth the trouble," and he smiled, lifting his brows questioningly.

"So that was the 'trap' that Marto raved and stormed to get back to?" remarked Kit. "I am still in the dark, though there are some glimmers of light coming. If Marto knew of that trap it explains——"

"There were three others of my men on the Soledad rancho, drawing pay from Perez. It is the first time that fox came in when we could spread the net tight. To get him at another place would not serve so well, for if Soledad was the casket of our treasure, at Soledad we make a three strike,—the cattle, the ammunition, and Perez there to show the hiding place! It is the finish of four months' trailing, and is worth the time, and but for Marto running loco over a girl, there would have been a beautiful quiet finish at Soledad ranch house last night."

"But, if your men have Perez——"

"Like that!" and Rotil stretched out his open hand, and closed it significantly, with a cruel smile in his black, swift-glancing eyes. "This time there is no mistake. For over a week men and stout mules have been going in;—it is a conducta and it is to take the ammunition. Well, senor, it is all well managed for me; also we have much need of that ammunition for our own lads."

"And it was done without a fight?" asked Kit. "I have heard that the men picked for Soledad were not the gentlest band Senor Perez could gather."

"We had their number," said Rotil placidly. "Good men enough, but with their cartridges doctored what could they do? I sent in two machine guns, and they were not needed. A signal smoke went up to show me all was well, and in another minute I heard the horses of Marto and his girl. He must have started an hour before Perez arrived. It is a trick of Don Jose's that no one can count on his engagements, but this time every hill had its sentinels for his trail, not anything was left to chance."

"And your accident?" asked Kit politely.

"Oh, I was setting my own guards at every pass when the runaway woman and men caught my ear and we took a short cut down the little canon to head them off. I knew they would make for here, and that houses were not plenty—" he smiled as if well satisfied with the knowledge. "So, as this was a friendly house it would be a safe bet to keep on coming." He blew rings of smoke from the cigarette, and chuckled.

"The boys will think a quicksand has swallowed us, and no one will be sleeping there at Soledad."

"Is there anything I can do to be of service," asked Kit. "I have a good room and a bed——"

But the chuckling of Rotil broke into a frank laugh.

"No, senor!" he said with humorous decision, watching Kit as he spoke, "already I have been told of your great kindness in the giving of beds and rooms of comfort. Why, with a house big enough, you could jail all the district of Altar! Not my head for a noose!"

Kit laughed awkwardly at the jest which was based on fact, but he met the keen eyes of Rotil very squarely.

"The Indians no doubt told you the reason the jail was needed?" he said. "If a girl picks a man to take a trail with, that is her own affair and not mine, but if a girl with chains on her wrists has to watch men throwing dice for her, and is forced to go with the winner—well—the man who would not help set her free needs a dose of lead. That is our American way, and no doubt is yours, senor."

"Sure! Let a woman pick her own, if she can find him!" agreed Rotil, and then he grinned again as he looked at Kit. "And, senor, it is a safe bet that this time she'll find him!—you are a good big mark, not easily hidden."

The other men smiled and nodded at the humor of their chief, and regarded Kit with appreciative sympathy. It was most natural of course for them to suppose that if he took a woman from Marto, he meant to win her for himself.

Kit smiled back at them, and shook his head.

"No such luck for a poor vaquero," he confessed. "The lady is in mourning, and much grief. She is like some saint of sorrows in a priest's tale, and——"

"The priests are liars, and invented hell," stated Rotil.

"That may be, but sometimes we see sad women of prayers who look like the saints the priests tell about,—and to have such women sold by a gambler is not good to hear of."

No one spoke for a little. The eyes of Rotil closed in a curious, contemptuous smile.

"You are young, boy," he said at last, "and even we who are not so young are often fooled by women. Trust any woman of the camp rather than the devout saints of the shrines. All are for market,—but you pay most for the saint, and sorrow longest for her. And you never forget that the shrine is empty!"

His tone was mocking and harsh, but Kit preferred to ignore the sudden change of manner for which there seemed no cause.

"Thanks for the warning, General, and no saints for me!" he said good naturedly. "Now, is there any practical thing I can do to add to your comfort here? Any plans for tomorrow?"

"A man of mine is already on the way to Soledad, and we will sleep before other plans are made. Not even Marto will I see tonight, knowing well that you have seen to his comfort!" and he chuckled again at the thought of Marto in his luxurious trap. "My lads will do guard duty in turn, and we sleep as we are."

"Then, if I can be of no service——"

"Tomorrow perhaps, not tonight, senor. Some sleep will do us no harm."

"Then good night, and good rest to you, General."

"Many thanks, and good night, Don Pajarito."

Kit laughed at that sally, and took himself out of the presence. It was plain that the Deliverer had obtained only the most favorable account of Kit as the friend of Whitely. And as an American lad who sang songs, and protected even women he did not know, he could not appear formidable to Rotil's band, and certainly not in need of watching.

He looked back at them as the general turned on his side to sleep, and one of his men blew out the two candles, and stationed themselves outside the door. As he noted the care they took in guarding him, and glanced at the heavy doors and barred windows, he had an uncomfortable thrill at the conviction that it would serve as a very efficient prison for himself if his new friends, the revolutionists, ever suspected he held the secret of the red gold of El Alisal. It was a bit curious that the famous lost mine of the old mission had never really been "lost" at all!

Isidro, looking very tired, had preceded him from the sala, as Kit supposed to go to bed. The day and night had been trying to the old man, and already it was the small hours of a new day.

There was a dim light in the room of Dona Jocasta, but no sound. Tula was curled up on a blanket outside her door like a young puppy on guard. He stooped and touched her shoulder.

"The senora?" he whispered.

"Asleep, after tears, and a sad heart!" she replied. "Valencia thanks the saints that at last she weeps,—the beautiful sad one!"

"That is well; go you also to sleep. Your friends keep guard tonight."

She made no reply, and he passed on along the corridor to his own rooms. The door was open, and he was about to strike a light when a hand touched his arm. He drew back, reaching for his gun.

"What the devil——"

"Senor," whispered Isidro, "make no light, and make your words in whispers."

"All right. What's on your mind?"

"The senora and the Deliverer. Know you not, senor, that she is sick with shame? It is so. No man has told him who the woman is he calls yours. All are afraid, senor. It is said that once Ramon Rotil was content to be a simple man with a wife of his own choosing, but luck was not his. It was the daughter of a priest in the hills, and Jose Perez took her!"

"Ah-h!" breathed Kit. "If it should be this one——"

"It is so,—she went like a dead woman at his voice, but he does not know. How should he, when Don Jose has women beyond count? Senor, my Valencia promised Dona Jocasta you would save her from meeting the general. That promise was better than a sleeping drink of herbs to her. Now that the promise is made, how will you make it good?"

"Holy smoke—also incense—also the pipe!" muttered Kit in the dark. "If I live to get out of this muddle I'll swear off all entangling alliances forevermore! Come into the kitchen where we can have a fire's light. I can't think in this blackness."

They made their way to the kitchen, and started a blaze with mesquite bark. The old Indian cut off some strips of burro jerke and threw them on the coals.

"That is better, it's an occupation anyway," conceded Kit chewing with much relish. "Now, Isidro, man, you must go on. You know the land best. How is one to hide a woman of beauty from desert men?"

"She may have a plan," suggested Isidro.

"Where is Clodomiro?" asked Kit, suddenly recalling that the boy had disappeared. The old man did not answer; he was very busy with the fire, and when the question was repeated he shook his head.

"I do not know who went. If Tula did not go, then Clodomiro was the one. They were talking about it."

"Talking,—about what?"

"About the German. He is caught at Soledad, and must not be let go, or let die. All the Indians of Palomitas will be asking the Deliverer for that man."

"Isidro, what is it they want to do with him?" asked Kit, and the old Indian ceased fussing around with a stick in the ashes, and looked up, sinister and reproving.

"That, senor, is a question a man does not ask. If my woman tells me the women want a man for Judas, I—get that man! I ask nothing."

"Good God! And that child, Tula—" began Kit in consternation, and old Isidro nodded his head.

"It is Tula who asked. She is proving she is a woman; Clodomiro goes for her because that is his work. Your white way would be a different way,—of an alcalde and the word of many witness. Our women have their own way, and no mistake is made."

"But Rotil, the general,—he will not permit——"

"Senor, for either mother or grandmother the general had an Indian woman. He has the knowing of these things. I think Tula gets the man they ask for. She is wise, that child! A good woman will be chosen to have speech with the Deliverer—when they come."

"There is a thought in that," mused Kit, glancing sharply at the old man. "Do they make choice of some wise woman, to be speaker for the others? And they come here?"

"That is how it is, senor."

"Then, what better way to hide Dona Jocasta than to place her among Indian women who come in a band for that task? Many women veil and shroud their heads in black as she does. The music of her voice was dulled when she spoke to Marto, and General Rotil had no memory of having ever heard it. Think,—is there to be found an old dress of your wife? Can it be done and trust no one? Dona Jocasta is clever when her fear is gone. With Tula away from that door the rest is easy. The dawn is not so far off."

"Dawn is the time the women of Palomitas will take the road," decided Isidro, "for by the rising time of the sun the Deliverer has said that his rest here is ended, and he goes on to Soledad where Jose Perez will have a trembling heart of waiting."

"Will they tell him whose trap he is caught in?"

"Who knows? The Deliverer has plans of his own making. It was not for idleness he was out of sight when the trap was sprung. He sleeps little, does Ramon Rotil!"

In a mesquite tree by the cook house chickens began to crow a desultory warning. And Isidro proceeded to subtract stealthily a skirt and shawl from wooden pegs set in the adobe wall where Valencia slept. She startled him by stirring, and making weary inquiry as to whether it was the time.

"Not yet, my treasure, that fighting cock of Clodomiro crows only because of a temper, and not for day. It is I will make the fire and set Maria to the grinding. Go you to your sleep."

Which Valencia was glad to do, while her holiday wardrobe, a purple skirt bordered with green, and a deeply fringed black shawl, was confiscated for the stranger within their gates.

Thrusting the bundle back of an olla in the corridor he touched Tula on the shoulder.

"The senor waits you in the kitchen," he muttered in the Indian tongue, and she arose without a word, and went silent as a snake along the shadowy way.

It took courage for Isidro to enter alone the room of Dona Jocasta, as that was the business of a woman. But Kit had planned that, if discovered, the girl should apparently have no accomplices. This would protect Tula and Valencia should Rotil suspect treachery if an occupant of the house should disappear. It would seem most natural that a stolen woman would seek to escape homeward when not guarded, and that was to serve as a reasonable theory.

She slept with occasional shuddering sighs, as a child after sobbing itself to sleep. That sad little sound gave the old Indian confidence in his errand. It might mean trouble, but she had dared trouble ere now. And there could not be continual sorrow for one so beautiful, and this might be the way out!

She woke with a startled cry as he shook her bed, but it was quickly smothered as he whispered her name.

"It is best you go to pray in the chapel room, and meet there the women of Palomitas. Others will go to pray for a Judas; among many you may be hidden."

She patted his arm, and arose in the dark, slipping on her clothes. He gave her the skirt and she donned that over her own dress. Her teeth were chattering with nervous excitement, and when she had covered herself with the great shawl, her hand went out gropingly to him to lead her.

As they did not pass the door of the sala, no notice was given them by Rotil's guard. Mexican women were ever at early prayers, or at the metate grinding meal for breakfast, and that last possibility was ever welcome to men on a trail.

In the kitchen Kit Rhodes was seeking information concerning Clodomiro from Tula, asking if it was true he would fetch the women of Palomitas to petition Rotil.

"Maybe so," she conceded, "but that work is not for a mind of a white man. Thus I am not telling you Clodomiro is the one to go; his father was what you call a priest,—but not of the church," she said hastily, "no, of other things."

Looking at her elfin young face in the flickering light of the hearth fire, he had a realization of vast vistas of "other things" leading backward in her inherited tendencies, the things known by his young comrade but not for the mind of a white man,—not even for the man whom Miguel had trusted with the secret of El Alisal. Gold might occasionally belong to a very sacred shrine, but even sacred gold was not held so close in sanctuary as certain ceremonies dear to the Indian thought. Without further words Kit Rhodes knew that there were locked chambers in the brain of his young partner, and to no white man would be granted the key.

"Well, since he has gone for them, there is nothing to say, though the general may be ill pleased at visitors," hazarded Kit. "Also you and I know why we should keep all the good will coming our way, and risk none of it on experiments. Go you back to your rest since there is not anything to be done. Clodomiro is at Palomitas by now, and you may as well sleep while the dawn is coming."

She took the strip of roasted meat he offered her, and went back to her blanket on the tiles at the door of the now empty room.



CHAPTER XV

THE "JUDAS" PRAYER AT MESA BLANCA

Isidro was right when he said Ramon Rotil slept but little, for the very edge of the dawn was scarce showing in the east when he opened his eyes, moved his wounded leg stiffly, and then lay there peering between half-shut eyelids at the first tint of yellow in the sky.

"Chappo," he said curtly, "look beyond through that window. Is it a band of horses coming down the mesa trail, or is it men?"

"Neither, my General, it is the women who are left of the rancherias of Palomitas. They come to do a prayer service at an old altar here. Once Mesa Blanca was a great hacienda with a chapel for the peons, and they like to come. It is a custom."

"What saint's day is this?"

"I am not wise enough, General, to remember all;—our women tell us."

"Um!—saint's day unknown, and all a pueblo on a trail to honor it! Call Fidelio."

There was a whistle, a quick tread, and one of the men of Palomitas stood in the door.

"Take two men and search every woman coming for prayers—guns have been carried under serapes."

"But, General——"

"Search every woman,—even though your own mother be of them!"

"General, my own mother is already here, and on her knees beyond there in the altar room. They pray for heart to ask of you their rights in Soledad."

"That is some joke, and it is too early in the morning for jokes with me. I'm too empty. What have Palomitas women to do with rights in Soledad?"

"I have not been told," said Fidelio evasively. "It is a woman matter. But as to breakfast, it is making, and the tortillas already baking for you."

"Order all ready, and a long stirrup for that leg," said the general, moving it about experimentally. "It is not so bad, but Marto can ride fasting to Soledad for giving it to me."

"But, my General, he asks——"

"Who is he to ask? After yesterday, silence is best for him. Take him along. I will decide later if he is of further use—I may—need—a—man!"

There was something deliberately threatening in his slow speech, and the guards exchanged glances. Without doubt there would be executions at Soledad!

Rotil got off the cot awkwardly, but disdaining help from the guards hopped to a chair against the wall between the two windows.

Isidro came in with a bowl of water, and a much embroidered towel for the use of the distinguished guest, followed by a vaquero with smoking tortillas, and Tula with coffee.

The general eyed the ornate drawnwork of the linen with its cobweb fingers, and grinned.

"I am not a bridegroom this morning, muchachita, and need no necktie of such fineness for my beauty. Bring a plainer thing, or none."

Tula's eyes lit up with her brief smile of approval.

"I am telling them you are a man and want no child things, my General," she stated firmly, "and now it proves itself! On the instant the right thing comes."

She darted out the door, bumping into Rhodes, and without even the customary "with your permission" ran past him along the corridor, and, suddenly cautious, yet bold, she lifted the latch of the guest room where she had seen what looked to her like wealth of towels,—and felt sure Dona Jocasta would not miss one of the plainest.

Stealthy as a cat she circled the bed, scarce daring to glance at it lest the lady wake and look reproach on her.

But she stepped on some hard substance on the rug by the wooden bench where the towels hung, and stooping, she picked it up, a little wooden crucifix, once broken, and then banded with silver to hold it solid. The silver was beautifully wrought and very delicate, surely the possession of a lady, and not a thing let fall by chance from the pocket of Valencia.

Tula turned to lay it carefully on the pillow beside the senora, and then stared at the vacant bed.

Only an instant she halted and thrust her hand under the cover.

"Cold,—long time cold!" she muttered, and with towel and crucifix she sped back to the sala where Rotil was joking concerning the compliment she paid him.

"Don't make dandies of yourselves if you would make good with a woman," he said. "Even that little crane of a muchacha has brain,—and maybe heart for a man! She has boy sense."

Kit, seeing her dart into the guest room, stood in his tracks watching for her to emerge. She gave him one searching curious look as she sped past, and he realized in a flash that his glance should have been elsewhere, or at least more casual.

She delivered the towel and retired, abashed and silent at the jests of the man she regarded with awe as the god-sent deliverer of her people. Once in the corridor she looked into Valencia's room, then in the kitchen where Valencia and Maria and other women were hastening breakfast, and last she sought Clodomiro at the corral.

"Where did you take her, and how?" she demanded, and the youth, tired with the endless rides and tasks of two days and nights, was surly, and looked his impatience. "She, and she, and she! Always women!" he grumbled. "Have I not herded all of them from over the mesa at your order? Is one making a slow trail, and must I go herding again?"

She did not answer, but looked past him at the horses.

"Which did the senora ride from Soledad?" she inquired, and Clodomiro pointed out a mare of shining black, and also a dark bay ridden by Marto.

"Trust him to take the best of the saddle herd," he remarked. "Why have you come about it? Is the senora wanting that black?"

"Maybe so; I was not told," she answered evasively. "But there is early breakfast, and it is best to get your share before some quick task is set,—and this day there are many tasks."

The women were entering the portal at the rear, because the chapel of the old hacienda was at the corner. There was considerable commotion as Fidelio enforced the order to search for arms;—if the Deliverer suspected treachery, how could they hope for the sympathy they came to beg for?

"Tell him there is nothing hidden under our rags but hearts of sorrow," said the mother of Fidelio. "Ask that he come here where we kneel to give God thanks that El Aleman is now in the power of the Deliverer."

"General Rotil does not walk, and there is no room for a horse in this door. Someone of you must speak for the others, and go where he is."

The kneeling women looked at each other with troubled dark eyes.

"Valencia will be the best one," said an old woman. "She lost no one by the pale beast, but she knows us every one. Marta, who was wife of Miguel, was always mother and spoke for us to the padre, or anyone, but Marta——"

She paused and shook her head; some women wept. All knew Marta was one who cried to them for vengeance.

"That is true," said Valencia. "Marta was the best, but the child of Marta is here, and knows more than we. She has done much,—more than many women. I think the daughter can speak best for the mother, and that the Deliverer will listen."

Tula had knelt like the others, facing a little shelf on the wall where a carven saint was dimly illuminated by the light of a candle. All the room was very dark, for the dawn was yet but as a gray cloak over the world, and no window let in light.

The girl stood up and turned toward Valencia.

"I will go," she said, "because it is my work to go when you speak, but the Deliverer will ask for older tongues and I will come back to tell you that."

Without hesitation she walked out of the door, and the others bent their heads and there was the little click-click of rosary beads, slipping through their fingers in the dusk. Among the many black-shawled huddled figures kneeling on the hard tiles, none noticed the one girl in the corner where shadows were deepest, and whose soft slender hands were muffled in Valencia's fringes.

Kit stood until he noted that the searching for arms did not include her, and then crossed the patio with Fidelio on his way to the corrals. If the black mare of Dona Jocasta could be gotten to the rear portal, together with the few burros of the older women, she might follow after unnoticed. The adobe wall at the back was over ten feet high and would serve as a shield, and the entire cavalcade would be a half mile away ere they came in range from the plaza.

He planned to manage that the mare be there without asking help of any Indian, and he thought he could do it while the guard was having breakfast. It would be easy for them to suppose that the black was his own. Thus scheming for beauty astray in the desert, he chatted with Fidelio concerning the pilgrimage of the Palomitas women, and the possibility of Rotil's patience with them, when Tula crossed the patio hurriedly and entered the door of the sala.

The general was finishing his breakfast, while Isidro was crouched beside him rewinding the bandage after a satisfactory inspection of the wound. The swelling was not great, and Rotil, eating cheerfully, was congratulating himself on having made a straight trail to the physician of Mesa Blanca; it was worth a lost day to have the healing started right.

He was in that complacent mood when Tula sped on silent bare feet through the sala portal, and halted just inside, erect against the wall, gazing at him.

"Hola! Nina who has the measure of a man! The coffee was of the best. What errand is now yours?"

"Excellency, it is the errand too big for me, yet I am the one sent with it. They send me because the mother of me, and Anita, my sister, were in the slave drive south, and the German and the Perez men carried whips and beat the women on that trail."

Her brave young heart seemed to creep up in her throat and choke her at thought of those whips and the women who were driven, for her voice trembled into silence, and she stood there swallowing, her head bent, and her hands crossed over her breast, and clasped firmly there was the crucifix she had found in the guest room. Little pagan that she was, she regarded it entirely as a fetish of much potency with white people, and surely she needed help of all gods when she spoke for the whole pueblo to this man who had power over many lives.

Rotil stared at her, frowning and bewildered.

"What the devil,—" he began, but Isidro looked up at him and nodded assent.

"It is a truth she is telling, Excellency. Her father was Miguel, once major-domo of this rancho. He died from their fight, and his women were taken."

"Oh, yes, that!—it happens in many states. But this German—who says the German and Perez were the men to do it?"

"I, Tula, child of Miguel, say it," stated the girl. "With my eyes I saw him,—with my ears I heard the sister call out his name. The name was Don Adolf. Over his face was tied a long beard, so! But it was the man,—the friend of Don Jose Perez of Soledad; all are knowing that. He is now your man, and the women ask for him."

"What women?"

"All the women of Palomitas. On their knees in the chapel they make prayers. Excellency, it robs you of nothing that you give them a Judas for Holy Week. I am sent to ask that of the Deliverer."

She slid down to her knees on the tiles, and looked up at him.

He stared at her, frowning and eyeing her intently, then chuckled, and grinned at the others.

"Did I not tell you she had the heart of a boy? And now you see it! Get up off your knees, chiquita. Why should you want a Judas? It is a sweetheart I must find for you instead."

"I am not getting up," said Tula stolidly. "I am kneeling before you, my General. See! I pray to you on the tiles for that Judas. All the women are praying. Also the old women have made medicine to send El Aleman once more on this trail, and see you,—it has come to pass! You have him in your trap, but he is ours. Excellency, come once and see all the women on their knees before the saint as I am here by you. We make prayers for one thing:—the Judas for our holy day!"

"You young devil!" he grinned. "I wish you were a boy. Here, you men help me, or get me a crutch. I will see these women on their knees, and if you don't lie——"

With the help of Fidelio and a cane, he started very well, and nodded to Kit.

"You pick well, amigo," he observed. "She is a wildcat, and of interest. Come you and see. Por Dios! I've seen a crucifixion of the Penitentes and helped dig the hidden grave. Also I have heard of the 'Judas' death on Holy Friday, but never before this has so young a woman creature picked a man for it,—a man alive! Courage of the devil!"

Tula arose, and went before them across the plaza to the door of the chapel. Kit knew this was the right moment for him to disappear and get the black mare back of the wall, but Rotil kept chuckling to him over the ungirlish request, and so pointedly included him in the party that there seemed no excuse available for absenting himself.

A flush of rose swept upward to the zenith heralding the sun, but in the adobe room, with its door to the west, no light came, except by dim reflection, and as Tula entered and the men stood at the threshold, they blocked the doorway of even that reflection, and the candle at the saint's shrine shone dimly over the bent heads of the kneeling women.

Rotil stood looking about questioningly; he had not expected to see so many. Then at the sound of the click of the prayer beads, some recollection of some past caused him to automatically remove his wide-brimmed hat.

"Mothers," said Tula quietly, "the Deliverer has come."

There was a half-frightened gasp, and dark faces turned toward the door.

"He comes as I told you, because I am no one by myself, and he could not know I was sent by you. I am not anyone among people, and he does not believe. Only people of importance should speak with a soldier who is a general."

"No, por Dios, my boy, you speak well!" said Rotil, clapping his hand on her shoulder, "but your years are not many and it cannot be you know the thing you ask for."

"I know it," asserted Tula with finality.

An old woman got up stiffly, and came towards him. "We are very poor, yet even our children are robbed from us—that is why we pray. Don Ramon, your mother was simple as we, and had heart for the poor. Our lives are wasted for the masters, and our women children are stolen for the sons of masters. That is done, and we wish they may find ways to kill themselves on the trail. But the man who drove them with whips is now your man—and we mothers ask him of you."

The wizened old creature trembled as she spoke, and scarce lifted her eyes. She made effort to speak further, but words failed, and she slipped to her knees and the beads slid from her nervous fingers to the tiles. She was very old, and she had come fasting across the mesa in the chill before the dawn; her two grandchildren had been driven south with the slaves—one had been a bride but a month—and they killed her man as they took her.

Valencia came to her and wiped the tears from her cheeks, patting her on the back as one would soothe a child, and then she looked at Rotil, nodding her head meaningly, and spoke.

"It is all true as Tia Tomasa is saying, senor. Her children are gone, and this child of Capitan Miguel knows well what she asks for. The days of the sorrows of Jesus are coming soon, and the Judas we want for that day of the days will not be made of straw to be bound on the wild bull's back, and hung when the ride is over. No, senor, we know the Judas asked of you by this daughter of Miguel;—it is the pale beast called El Aleman. For many, many days have we made prayers like this, before every shrine, that the saints would send him again to our valley. You, senor, have brought answer to that prayer. You have him trapped, but he belongs only to us women. The saints listened to us, and you are in it. Men often are in prayers like that, and have no knowing of it, senor."

Kit listened in amazement to this account of prayers to Mexican saints for a Judas to hang on Good Friday! After four centuries of foreign priesthood, and foreign saints on the shrines, the mental effect on the aborigines had not risen above crucifixion occasionally on some proxy for their supreme earthly god, or mad orgies of vengeance on a proxy for Judas. The great drama of Calvary had taught them only new forms of torture and the certainty that vengeance was a debt to be paid. Conrad was to them the pale beast whipping women into slavery,—and as supreme traitor to human things must be given a Judas death!

He shivered as he listened, and looked at the eyes of women staring out of the dusk for the answer to their prayers.

"Por Dios!" muttered Rotil, half turning to Kit, yet losing nothing of the pleading strained faces. "Does your head catch all of that, senor? Can't women beat hell? And women breed us all! What's the answer?"

"In this case it's up to you, General," replied Kit. "I'm glad the responsibility is not mine. Even as it is, women who look like these are likely to walk through my dreams for many a night!"

Rotil gloomed at them, puzzled, frowning, and at times the flicker of a doubtful smile would change his face without lighting it. No one moved or spoke.

"Here!" he said at last, "this child and two women have spoken, but there are over twenty of you here. Three out of twenty is no vote—hold up your hands. Come, don't hang back, or you won't get Judas! There are no priests here, and no spies for priests, and there have been words enough. Show your hands!"

Kit looked back into the darkest corner, wondering what the vote of Jocasta would be; her mother was said to be Indian, or half Indian, and her hatred of the German would help her understand these darker tribal sisters.

But in the many lifted hands her own could not be seen and he felt curiously relieved, though it was no affair of his, and one vote either way would weigh nothing.

Rotil looked at the lifted hands, and grunted.

"You win, muchacha," he said to Tula. "I think you're the devil, and it's you made the women talk. You can come along to Soledad and fetch their Judas back to them."

"My thanks to you, and my service, Excellency," said Tula. "I will go and be glad that I go for that. But I swear by the Body and Blood, and I swear on this, that I only pay the debt of my people to El Aleman."

She was helping old Tia Tomasa to her feet with one hand, and held up the little crucifix to him with the other. She had noted that white people make oath on a cross when they want to be believed, and she wished with all her pagan heart to be believed by this man who had been a sort of legendary hero to her many months before she had seen his face, or dared hope he would ever grant favor to her—Tula!

But whatever effect she hoped to secure by emphasizing her oath on the Christian symbol, she was not prepared for the rough grasp on her arm, or the harsh command of his voice.

"Holy God!" he growled, "why do you thrust that in my face,—you?"

"Excellency—I—" began Tula, but he shook her as a cat would shake a mouse.

"Answer me! How comes it in your hands?"

"I found it, senor—and did no harm."

"When? Where?"

"Why—I—I——"

A note of warning flashed from some wireless across the girl's mind, for it was no little thing by which Ramon Rotil had suddenly become a growling tiger with his hand near her throat.

"Where?" he repeated.

"On a trail, senor."

"When?"

"Three days ago."

"Where?"

"At the place where the Soledad trail leaves that of Mesa Blanca."

Rotil stared at her, and then turned to Kit.

"Do you know of this thing?"

"No, General, I don't," he said honestly enough, "but these women have many such——"

"No," contradicted Rotil, "they haven't,—there's a difference."

He had seized the crucifix and held it, while he scanned the faces, and then brought his gaze back to Tula.

"You will show me that place, and prove yourself, muchacha," he said grimly. "There's something—something—Do you know, you damned young crane, that I can have my men shoot you against the wall out there if you lie to me?"

"Yes, my General, but it is better to give lead to enemies—and not friends. Also a knife is cheaper."

"Silence! or you may get both!" he growled. "Here, look well—you—all of you! Have any of you but this creature seen it?"

He held it out, and Valencia, who was nearest, caught sight of it.

"Ai! Tula!" she said in reproof, "you to take that when the poor——"

Tula flashed one killing look at her, and Valencia stopped dead, and turned an ashen gray, and Rotil watching!

"Ah—ha! I thought it!" he jeered. "Now whose trick is it to make me a fool? Come, sift this thing! You," to Valencia, "have looked on this before. Whose is it?"

"Senor—I——"

"So!" he said with a sort of growl in the voice, "something chokes you? Look at me, not at the others! Also listen:—if a lie is told to me, every liar here will go before a firing squad. Whose is this crucifix?"

Valencia's eyes looked sorrow on Tula, still under his hand, and then on the wood and silver thing held up before her. The sun was just rolling hot and red above the mountains, and Rotil's shaggy head was outlined in a sort of curious radiance as the light struck the white wall across the patio at his back. Even the silver of the crucifix caught a glimmer of it, and to Valencia he looked like the warrior padres of whom her grandmother used to tell, who would thunder hell's terrors on the frightened neophytes until the bravest would grovel in the dust and do penances unbelievable.

That commanding picture came between her and Rotil,—the outlaw and soldier and patriot. She stumbled forward with a pleading gesture towards Tula.

"Excellency, the child does no harm. She is a stranger in the house. She has picked it up perhaps when lost by the senora, and——"

"What senora?"

"She who is most sorrowful guest here, Excellency, and her arms still bruised from the iron chains of El Aleman."

"And her name?"

"Excellency, it is the woman saved from your man by the Americano senor here beside you. And,—she asked to be nameless while sheltered at Mesa Blanca."

"But not to me! So this is a game between you two—" and he looked from Tula to Kit with sinister threat in his eyes, "it is then your woman who——"

"Ramon—no!" said a voice from the far shadows, and the black shawled figure stood erect and cast off the muffling disguise. Her pale face shone like a star above all the kneeling Indians.

"God of heaven!" he muttered, and his hand fell from the shoulder of Tula. "You—you are one of the women who knelt here for vengeance?"

"For justice," she said, "but I was here for a reason different;—it was a place to hide. No one helped me, let the child go! Give these women what they ask or deny them, but send them away. To them I am nameless and unknown. You can see that even my presence is a thing of fear to them,—let them go!"

He stared at her across those frightened dark faces. It was true they drew away from her in terror; her sudden uprising was as if she had materialized from the cold tiles of the chapel floor. Kit noted that their startled eyes were wide with awe, and knew that they also felt they were gazing on a beauty akin to that of the pictured saints. Even the glimmer of the candle touching her perfect cheek and brow added to the unearthly appearance there in the shadows.

But Ramon Rotil gazed at her across a wider space than that marked by the kneeling Indian women! Four years were bridged by that look, and where the others saw a pale Madonna, he saw a barefooted child weaving flowers of the mountain for a shrine where poverty prevented a candle.

He had sold maize to buy candles, and shoes for her feet, and she had given him the little brown wooden crucifix.

Once in the height of her reign of beauty in the hacienda of Perez, a ragged brown boy from the hills had lain in wait for her under the oleanders, and thrust a tightly bound package of corn husks into her hand, and her maid regarded with amazement the broken fragments of a wooden cross so poor and cheap that even the most poverty stricken of the peons could own one, and her wonder was great that her mistress wept over the broken pieces and strove to fit them together again.

And now it lay in his hand, bound and framed in silver wires delicately wrought.

He had traveled farther than she during the years between, and the memento of the past made him know it.

"Ramon, let them go!" she repeated with gentle appeal.

"Yes," he said, taking a deep breath as if rousing from a trance, "that is best. Child—see to it, and have your way. Senor, will you arrange that the senora has what comfort there is here? Our horses wait, and work waits——"

He saw Valencia go with protecting, outstretched hands to Jocasta, and turned away.

Jocasta never moved. To save her friends from his rage she had spoken, and to her the big moment of humiliation dreamed of and feared had come and been lived through. He had seen her on her knees among all that brown herd made up of such women as his mother and her mother had been. From mistress of a palace on an estate large as many European kingdoms she had become an outcast with marks of fetters on her arms, while he was knelt to as a god by the simple people of the ranges, and held power of life and death over a wide land!

Kit could not even guess at all the tempestuous background of the drama enacted there in the chill of the chapel at sunrise, but the clash of those two outlaw souls suddenly on guard before each other, thrilled him by the unexpected. Rotil, profane, ruthless, and jeering, had suddenly grown still before the face of a woman from whom he turned away.

"Late! An hour late!" he grumbled, hobbling back to the plaza. "What did I tell you? Hell of women! Well, your damned little crane got what she started after—huh! Why did she lie?"

"Well, you know, General," said Kit doubtfully, "that the enmity between you and Jose Perez is no secret. Even the children talk of it, and wish success to you—I've heard that one do it! Dona Jocasta is of a Perez household, so it was supposed you would make prisoner anyone of their group. And Tula—well, I reckon Tula listened last night to some rather hard things the senora has lived through at Soledad, and knew she would rather die here than go back there."

Kit realized he was on delicate ground when trying to explain any of the actions of any of the black and tan group to each other, but he sought the safest way out, and drew a breath of relief at his success, for Rotil listened closely, nodding assent, yet frowning in some perplexity.

"Um! what does that mean,—rather die than go back?" he demanded. "No one has told me why the lady has come to Mesa Blanca, or what she is doing here. I don't see—What the devil ails you?"

For Kit stared at him incredulous, and whistled softly.

"Haven't you got it yet?" he asked. "Last night you joked about a girl Marto stole, and we stole from him again. Don't you realize now who that girl is?"

"Jocasta!"

It was the first time he had uttered her name and there was a low terrible note in his voice, half choked by smothered rage.

"But how could Marto,—or why should—" he began and then halted, checked by various conflicting facts, and stared frowningly at Rhodes who again strove to explain that of which he had little knowledge.

"General, I reckon Marto was square to your interests about everything but the woman Perez and Conrad sent north into the desert, and it was Marto's job to see that she never left it alive. Evidently he did not report that extra task to you, for he meant to save the woman for himself. But even at that, General, you've got to give him credit. He says she bewitched him, and he couldn't kill her, and he wouldn't let the others have her. Also he risked a whale of a beating up, and some lead souvenirs, in trying to save her, even if it was for himself. So you see, Marto was only extra human, and is a good man. His heart's about broke to think he failed you, and I'll bet he wouldn't fail you again in a thousand years!"

"Yes, you have the right of that," agreed Rotil. "I did not know; I don't know yet what this means about Perez and—and——"

"None of us do, General," stated Kit. "I heard Valencia say it must be something only a confessor could know,—but it must be rather awful at that! She was started north like an insane criminal, hidden and in chains. She explains nothing, but General, you have now the two men at Soledad who made the plan, and you have here Marto who was their tool—and perhaps—at Soledad—" he paused questioning.

"Sure! that is what will be done," decided Rotil. "See to it, you, after we are gone. Bring Dona Jocasta to Soledad with as much show of respect as can be mustered in a poor land, your girl and Isidro's wife to go along, and any comforts you can find. Yes, that is the best! Some way we will get to the bottom of this well. She must know a lot if they did not dare let her live, and Marto—well, you make a good talk for him, straight too—Marto will go with me. Tell no one anything. Make your own plans. By sunset I will have time for this mystery of the chains of Dona Jocasta. Be there at Soledad by sunset."

"At your command, General."

Then Chappo and Fidelio helped their leader into the saddle. Marto, crestfallen and silently anticipating the worst, was led out next; a reata passed around the saddle horn and circling his waist was fastened back of the saddle. His hands were free to guide his horse, but Chappo, with a wicked looking gun and three full cartridge belts, rode a few paces back of him to see that he made no forbidden use of them.

Kit watched them ride east while the long line of women of Palomitas took up the trail over the mesa to the north. Their high notes of a song came back to him,—one of those wailing chants of a score of verses dear to the Mexican heart. In any other place he would have deemed it a funeral dirge with variations, but with Indian women at sunrise it meant tuneful content.

Kit listened with a shiver. Because of his own vagrant airs they had called him "El Pajarito" when he first drifted south over Mexican trails,—but happy erratic tunefulness was smothered for him temporarily. Over the vast land of riches, smiling in the sun, there brooded the threats of Indian gods chained, inarticulate, reaching out in unexpected ways for expression through the dusky devotees at hidden shrines. The fact that occasionally they found expression through some perverted fragment from an imported cult was a gruesome joke on the importers. But under the eagle of Mexico, whose wide wings were used as shield by the German vultures across seas, jokes were not popular. German educators and foreign priests with Austrian affiliations, saw to that. The spiritual harvest in Mexico was not always what the planters anticipated,—for curious crops sprung up in wild corners of the land, as Indian grains wrapped in a mummy's robe spring to life under methods of alien culturists.

Vague drifting thoughts like this followed Kit's shiver of repulsion at that Indian joy song over the promise of a veritable live Judas. On him they could wreak a personal vengeance, and go honestly to confession in some future day, with the conviction that they had, by the sufferings they could individually and collectively invent for Judas, in some vague but laudable manner mitigated the sufferings of a white god far away whose tribulations were dwelt upon much by the foreign priesthood.

He sensed this without analysis, for his was not the analytical mind. What brain Kit had was fairly well occupied by the fact that his own devoted partner was the moving spirit of that damnable pagan Come, all ye—drifting back to him from the glorified mesa, flushed golden now by the full sun.

Clodomiro came wearily up from the corral. The boy had gone without sleep or rest until his eyes were heavy and his movements listless. Like the women of Palomitas he also had worked overtime at the call of Tula, and Kit wondered at the concerted activity—no one had held back or blundered.

"Clodomiro," he said passing the lad a cigarette and rolling one for himself from good new tobacco secured from Fidelio, "how comes it that even the women of years come in the night for prayers when you ride for them? Do they give heed to any boy who calls?"

Clodomiro gave thanks for the cigarette, but was too well bred to light it in the presence of an elder or a superior. He smelled it with pleasure, thrust it over his ear and regarded Rhodes with perfectly friendly and apparently sleepy black eyes.

"Not always, senor, but when Tula sends the call of Miguel, all are surely coming, and also making the prayer."

"The call of Miguel? Why—Miguel is dead."

"That is true, senor, but he was head man, and he had words of power, also the old Indians listened. Now Tula has the words, and as you see,—the words are still alive! I am not knowing what they mean,—the words,—but when Tula tells me, I take them."

"O Tippecanoe, and Tyler too!" hummed Kit studying the boy. "What's in a word? Do you mean that you take a trail to carry words you don't understand, because a girl younger than you tells you to?"

The boy nodded indifferently.

"Yes, senor, it is my work when it is words of old prayer, and Tula is sending them. It would be bad not to go, a quicksand would surely catch my horse, or I might die from the bite of a sorrilla rabioso, or evil ghosts might lure me into wide medanos where I would seek trails forever, and find only my own! Words can do that on a man! and Tula has the words now."

"Indeed! That's a comfortable chum to have around—not! And have you no fear?"

"Not so much. I am very good," stated Clodomiro virtuously. "Some day maybe I take her for my woman;—her clan talks about it now. She has almost enough age, and—you see!"

He directed the attention of Rhodes to the strips of red and green and pink calico banding his arms, their fluttering ends very decorative when he moved swiftly.

"Oh, yes, I've been admiring them. Very pretty," said Kit amicably, not knowing the significance of it, but conscious of the wide range one might cover in a few minutes of simple Sonora ranch life. From the tragic and weird to the childishly inane was but a step.

Clodomiro passed on to the kitchen, and Kit smoked his cigarette and paced the outer corridor, striving for plans to move forward with his own interests, and employ the same time and the same trail for the task set by Ramon Rotil.

Rotil had stated that the escort of Dona Jocasta must be as complete as could be arranged. This meant a duena and a maid at least, and as he had bidden Tula have her way with her "Judas," it surely meant that Tula must go to Soledad. Very well so far, and as Rotil would certainly not question the extent of the outfit taken along, why not include any trifles Tula and he chanced to care for? He remembered also that there were some scattered belongings of the Whitely's left behind in the haste of departure. Well, a few mule loads would be a neighborly gift to take north when he crossed the border, and Soledad was nearer the border!

It arranged itself very well indeed, and as Tula emerged from the patio smoothing out an old newspaper fragment discarded by Fidelio, and chewing chica given her by Clodomiro, he hailed her with joy.

"Blessed Indian Angel," he remarked appreciatively, "you greased the toboggan for several kinds of hell for us this day of our salvation, but your jinx was on the job, and turned the trick our way! Do you know you are the greatest little mascot ever held in captivity?"

But Tula didn't know what "mascot" meant, and was very much occupied with the advertisement of a suit and cloak house in the old Nogales paper in which some trader at the railroad had wrapped Fidelio's tobacco. It had the picture of an alluring lady in a dress of much material slipping from the shoulders and dragging around the feet. To the aboriginal mind that seemed a very great waste, for woven material was hard to come by in the desert.

She attempted an inquiry concerning that wastefulness of Americanas, but got no satisfactory reply. Kit took the tattered old paper from her hand, and turned it over because of the face of Singleton staring at him from the other side of the page. It was the account of the inquest, and in the endeavor to add interest the local reporters had written up a column concerning Singleton's quarrel with the range boss, Rhodes,—and the mysterious disappearance of the latter across the border!

There was sympathetic mention made of Miss Wilfreda Bernard, heiress of Granados, and appreciative mention of the efficient manager, Conrad, who had offered all possible assistance to the authorities in the sad affair. The general expression of the article was regret that the present situation along the border prevented further investigation concerning Rhodes. The said Rhodes appeared to be a stranger in the locality, and had been engaged by the victim of the crime despite the objections of Manager Conrad.