“I don’t want any might-have-beens; I want to know if you are making war on my brother as well as on me. It’s all right about me, but I won’t have anything of the sort where he’s concerned. I want the truth, José. Is anything of the kind going to happen again?”
Gonzalez looked at Conrad squarely as he earnestly replied: “It was a mistake, Don Curtis; I swear to you it was a mistake. Your brother looks much like you, it was your mare, and you had said you would be back from Golden about that hour. I saw it was Don Homer barely in time. After this I shall be more careful.”
Conrad grinned at the closing sentence, and the Mexican scarcely repressed an answering smile. “Well, I am going away to-day,” said Curtis, “to be gone for several days. So it won’t be necessary for you to make any mistakes while I’m gone.”
José looked up in quick alarm. “You are not going to Don Dellmey?” he exclaimed. “He is not the one who wishes your death!”
“What do you say, José?” the other demanded, starting forward eagerly.
“I swear to you by the Mother of God, Don Curtis,” said the Mexican, with voice intense and manner most earnest, “that it is not Señor Baxter who desires your death.”
“Are you speaking the truth, José?”
“I will swear it on the crucifix, Don Curtis!”
Conrad gazed at him steadfastly, and the conviction entered his mind that Gonzalez was speaking the truth. A look of puzzled wonder overspread his face. “In the name of God, then, who is it?” he said, half aloud. The Mexican shrugged a shoulder and turned away.