Even the dignified Indian was interested. There was Dennis again at war with his tethered broncho, who was nonchalantly nibbling the last of the priceless loaf—their own breakfast.
“Dennis! Dennis! Are you going to fight him every day, as you did Mr. Grady? Stop—I’m ashamed of you.”
“Stop, is it? An’ the breakfast clean gone?”
“But that is your fault, not his. You shouldn’t have left it where he could get it. Besides, who knows but it is all dirty and—and centipede-y?”
The Indian waited until there was a lull in affairs, then quietly untied the broncho, motioned that Carlota should mount her burro—still unsaddled, and taking the leading straps of both animals, strode up the canyon at a rapid pace. By a gesture he indicated that Dennis was to bring the saddles, blankets, and other belongings of the pair; and so intimidated was Mr. Fogarty that he dared not disobey.
Carlota rode as silent as her guide. She guessed that he was taking her to some settlement and she saw that he was such as had frequented Refugio, and from whom she had never received other than kind treatment. She was consumed by anxiety concerning Carlos but, from her father’s talks and her own slight experience, she knew sufficient of Indian character to understand that this silence would best serve her purpose. She had asked for information and the stranger had answered, “Come.”
So because of her faith that she was being swiftly led to her brother, her heart grew light and she began to sing; and hearing the song floating down to him through the gulch, poor Dennis made a virtue of necessity and loaded himself worse than any pack mule. Then he started forward whither the others had now disappeared.
It was a brief but anxious pilgrimage. At every step he fancied a creeping, stinging reptile beneath his feet, though he reckoned upon the protection which his mighty boots were to him. On either shoulder he bore a saddle which continually grew heavier, as is the habit of burdens carried. The blanket and serape airily floated anywhere it happened, underfoot or overhead, at the caprice of the wind; and the tin box of his “little lady” played a jingling accompaniment to the whole.
“Faith! ’tis well I’d all that fine practice, hod-carryin’ to them tall buildin’s in Chicago, before I took up with railroadin’, now isn’t it, Mr. Fogarty?” he ejaculated, as he neared his journey’s end.
A moment later, as he came in sight of the pueblo and a group of its inhabitants assembled before it, he complacently added: