This was a cluster of adobe huts upon a little stream. It was four leagues distant from the Mission and, during the shearing, used as a folding for the sheep-bands owned by Mr. Manuel, though at other times these browsed upon the plains or were driven into the mountains. It was to this folding that old Marta had said the lost ones were bound; and in looking for them there the first false start was made and the first valuable hours wasted.
Further than this, had Pablo fulfilled his promise promptly all might have been different. But the idea of any fixed time did not enter his narrow mind. His life was always a wandering one and he was well known throughout that whole wild region. Sometimes he appeared at some railway station in the wilderness and, during the train’s brief halt, amused the passengers by his grotesque “dancing” and the idea that he was an “Indian.” Though, in fact, his mother was a Mexican and his feet most often strayed toward the south. But he had many homes; in caves and canyons or poor men’s homes. Most people pitied the “Simple” and a few feared him.
Such, then was the messenger dispatched with the leaf-letter, and the twins watched him rapidly disappear, while Carlos said:
“He’ll surely get to Refugio long before the afternoon meal and I hope Marta will give him plenty of nice, clean food. I wish I could have some, too. Nuts and things like that are nice for a finish but a nice lamb chop—my!” Then he observed Carlota still gazing wistfully after the vanishing Pablo and added, sternly: “Carlota, don’t you stand and watch him that way. First you know you’ll be running back yourself.”
“Brother, I never! Unless you—”
“I what?”
“Want to go, too.”
“Course I do. Course I will. When—I find my father.” He put his arm about her and firmly pointed northward.
Her gaze followed his and beheld a vast, sun-heated plain. It wasn’t an attractive outlook, yet if that were the way to her father’s presence she could travel it cheerfully.
“Come on. Let’s hurry.”