“That grown up baby, Dennis! Soul of my life, what has he to do with a horse? A pack-donkey is even too good for one who would run a friend through with a knife, yes.”
“But the beautiful horse, Paula, what of him?”
“Shall one of the Master’s children ride and not the other? ’Tis a fine animal, he chose well from the wildings, and he conquered the wildness well. It befits that to the finder the spoils. So the council now decree. Ha! ’Tis a proud, handsome lad; he they would have made a Pueblo brave! I—I wish—if my poor Pablo—?”
Carlota’s arms were around the old mother’s neck and she was kissing away the gloom which rested on the wrinkled face, crying:
“Ah! dear Paula! You have been so good to us! Up in her Heaven my happy mother must know and love you for the help you have given her straying children. And we will find him, that Pablo you love. Miguel and many shall hunt for him everywhere, and when he is found he shall be led to you here. Believe me, he shall. And for the rest—thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“In truth then, should I die in peace. If he were here he would be safe. The Pueblos honor the ‘touched of God.’ Alas! the Americanos taunt and jeer them.”
“Believe me. I feel—I know—he will come back to you some day, and soon.”
Gayly, they rode forward all that day and toward sunset had come so far into the mountains that the guides could clearly point their further route. They halted in a beautiful spot, where there was abundant water and verdure, and they had their packs well-filled by their recent hosts. Yet, with the deep emotions of those who live close to nature, they long lingered over the parting; and even Dennis, on his new and quiet mount, appeared thoughtful and serious. He seemed either to have adopted the silence of his Indian escort or to be afflicted by the prospect of another journey into unknown places and dangers.
Carlota had her botany-box piled with her other belongings upon her burro, and though Carlos had left his own cherished hammer in the Burnham’s wagon, he had been given another of Indian shaping which, because of its flint-stone head, he thought far superior. Said Carlota, as she sat down by the old woman on a boulder:
“You see, Paula, we, too, are ‘prospecting,’ same as our father did. The good Burnhams hope to find some traces somewhere of gold, or silver, or something else that would mean money. I know many sorts of flowers that bloom in mining lands. That is, I know about them, for my father told me. He showed me pictures, too, that he himself had painted. I could tell the real ones in a minute, if I only could find some. Then Mr. Burnham could pay back to the rich old lady, that lives away off, all the debt he owes her and that he calls his ‘life’s burden.’ We would be doing good if we could help him, and to do good is all it’s worth living for, my father says.”