“Yes. If I told him to,” she replied, convincingly.
The alacrity with which the Irishman dismounted was proof of his relief; also, that he would not be outdone in anything by the unknown Mexican.
Yet, walking seemed very slow, and though they tried to make the way merry by stories, and plans for the future when they should all—including Dennis Fogarty, Miner—be back at Refugio, they had not accomplished any great distance before the sudden twilight of the west came down upon them. Nor, apparently, were they any nearer meeting the lost lad than when they left the Burnham’s wagon.
Both were wise concerning the perils of lonely night-travel in that region, so decided to turn aside into a little ravine which suggested water and a camping place. It was even, by some miles, nearer the mountains they had hoped to reach, but they did not realize this then.
Making what haste they could to the spot they had chosen they found, as they had hoped, a spring of refreshing water, and dropping down beside it drew long breaths of delight. Then they plunged their hot faces into the little stream and drank deeply.
“Sure, that was better than bein’ made President o’ this fine counthry, it was!” exclaimed Dennis, but Carlota only sighed in content. Physical comfort influenced her mind, also, so that she said, after another moment of rest:
“Somehow, I don’t feel so worried about Carlos, now. Do you?”
“’Tis meself that never was.”
“I thought you were.”
“Acushla! Thinkin’ an’ bein’ is two different matters, Miss Carlota. That fine brother o’ yours is a nimble gossoon, so he be. If he slips into a scrape he’ll easy slip out again. So, bein’s we’re here, we’d best take another sup o’ that blessed water an’ a bite to eat, and be off to the land o’ dreams.”