“I? No, I have just come; I am alone, and heard your song and forgot everything else.”
To his surprise she came hurriedly forward out of the dusk, and stood close to his side, looking fearfully over toward the night lights at the bar, whence the sounds of Mexican voices could be heard.
“Alone? You came here alone? O senor, ride on or ride back. Stay not here! Not at the rancho! There are wicked men—not my father; not Pedro Ruiz, but—there are others.”
“Is this true? Are you Pedro's daughter?” queried the lieutenant, evidently far more impressed with this fact than with her tidings. “I never knew he had a child like you, and I have been here often and have never seen you.”
“But I—have seen you, senor, when you were last here, and I saw you, too, at the cuartel at Tucson. Do you know—do you remember the day of the race?” And her dark eyes were for one instant lifted timidly to his.
“Is this possible?” he exclaimed, seizing her hand as it fell listlessly by her side. “Let me see your face. Surely I have heard your voice before.” But she shrank back, half timid, half capricious.
“I must not; I must go, senor, and you—you must ride away.”
And now her eyes glanced half fearfully toward the house, then sought his face in genuine anxiety. He had been fumbling in the pocket of his hunting shirt, and suddenly drew forth a little silver case. The next instant, while he held her wrist firmly with one hand, the brilliant flame of an electric match flashed over her face and form.
