It was this belief which had inspired his rudeness to Mr. Rupert and this fear which had been whispered to little Carlota. He had bidden her seek Carlos and go with him to some safe place of hiding until such time as the strangers should grow weary of their fruitless efforts and depart. There were many, many outbuildings at Refugio. It was, indeed, as strangers always said, large enough for a regular rancheria, or village, and had been such in the old Padres’ time. In some one of these many old adobes the imperilled little ones might stay till danger was past, and in whichever spot they hid he would soon find and watch over them. The main thing was for them to disappear, and at once. Alas! hasty Miguel little dreamed how literally they were to obey his commands!
It was but a few moments after the manager had whispered his caution that old Marta paused in her supper getting, and its incident scolding of young Anita, her helper, to watch the children speed past her kitchen door, and remarked:
“There they flit, yes, the children of my last days. Heart of my life, but it was fine to hear that small Carlota speak the strange Señor so fair. Anita, under her curls of gold lie the brains thou lackest, my imbecile!”
“Then if she has what belongs to me, let her restore to me my own, for her then, the indolent, would be thy unnumbered chidings. Good. ‘Turn about is fair play.’ Why should she always be free to run and ride while I—”
“Take that for thy insolence, kitchen-maid! Let me tell thee that in that far land whence my child’s blessed mother came, the Señora Manuel of holy memory, there are—Bah! Why waste words on such? This is for the impudence; and this—because thou mindest not the podrida[9] but must be staring, staring at every stranger-man crossing the threshold of Refugio!”
The housekeeper’s words were emphasized by a couple of heavy slaps upon Anita’s broad shoulders, but the girl cared no more for the blows than for the interminable scoldings. It was all in the day’s work, yes. She, too, loved her master’s children, as everybody knew, and having annoyed Marta by her pretended envy of Carlota the mischievous maid was ready to join the old woman at the door and behold what thence might be seen.
There was always something interesting. Miguel pottering about, swaggering in that authority he never allowed to lapse; a vaquero coming or going; now and again, a farm hand, with Mateo, the gardener; and “forever and always,” the poultry-boys, chasing the fowls from the cistern.
Anita was just in time to see the twins swing themselves upon Benoni’s back, where their Navajo blankets still rested. They had put on their sombreros and now, seeing the two women in the doorway, Carlos caught his off and waved it as he cried:
“Adios! Marta—Anita—Refugio! Adios—ADIOS!”
What was there in that familiar salutation that set old Marta’s heart to beating trip-hammer strokes? Clapping her withered hand to her side she caught hold of Anita and whirled that young person around with an unexpected force, demanding: