“He?”
“Si, señor, he who shares my wrong, Don Anastasio Murguía.”
“Murgie!” exclaimed the bewildered American. “But–why, hombre, I haven’t seen the old skinflint since–since he and I both were court-martialled by Lopez!”
“Still I promised him to send the cross to you, because you will have a chance to give it to him. He said so.”
“Oh, he did?” But Driscoll put the trinket in his pocket, not unwilling to see more of this foolish drama in Latin-American sentiment. “Now then, Rod,” he went on impatiently, “you haven’t explained yet how you happen to find her again.”
“That,” replied the outlaw, “was his part of the bargain.”
“Whose?”
“Anastasio Murguía’s.”
“Rod, you talk like a––”
“But no, señor, it’s because you Americans cannot understand. Murguía also believes in vengeance. I haven’t seen him either, not since he sold his hacienda over a year ago. But I do know that he or some spy of his is in the capital, for a messenger from him came to me in the mountains. The 386messenger said that the Marquesa d’Aumerle was leaving for Querétero. If I captured her, it would be vengeance in kind. But Murguía wanted pay for his information. He wanted that cross–it was his daughter’s–and I was to send it to him through you. Dios mio, but I had to hurry! A little more, and the Marquesa would have been inside your lines.”