Once Luis had ridden close beside Wichita and spoken to her. “I am sorry, Senorita,” he whispered. “I did not know what they were going to do. If I can help you, I will. Maybe, when they are drunk, I can help you get away.”
“Thanks,” replied the girl. As she spoke she turned and looked at the youth, noticing him more than casually for the first time, and realized that his face seemed familiar. “Where have I seen you before?” she asked.
“I brought the pinto pony from El Teniente King to your rancho a year ago,” replied Luis.
“Oh, yes, I remember you now. You brought Shoz-Dijiji’s pony up from Mexico.”
“Shoz-Dijiji’s pony? Was that Shoz-Dijiji’s pony? You know Shoz-Dijiji, Senorita?”
“I know him,” said the girl; “do you?”
“Yes, very well. He saved my father’s life, and twice when he could have killed me he did not.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Cheetim who rode back to Wichita’s side.
“Well, here we are, dearie,” he said, “but we ain’t goin’ to stay here long. Tomorrow morning we hit the trail fer a place I know where God himself couldn’t find us.”
The shack, before which the party had stopped and were dismounting, was a rough affair built of stone and mud and such timber as grew sparsely on the slopes of the canyon in the bottom of which it nestled. A tiny spring, now choked with dirt, made a mud hole a few yards to one side of the building. The men led their horses to the rear of the building where there were a few trees to which they could fasten them. Two of the men started to clean out the spring, and Cheetim escorted Wichita into the shack.