“Hugh Edwards is waiting with the horses. We have the pinto and your saddle but I fear you must leave everything else. Not all the men are in there gambling and drinking. There are three in front of the house at the farther end of the ramada. They are sitting with their backs toward your door so I was able to get in. I dared not wait longer because, from their talk, they are expecting some one to come any minute. Then the party in the next room will break up and it will be too late for us to move. We must hurry.”
“I am ready,” whispered the girl.
“You will be brave and do exactly what I say?”
“Yes.”
“Good!—Come.”
There was a burst of angry voices in the next room. The Indian waited until he was satisfied that the gamblers were continuing their play, then, leading Marta to the window in the end of the building toward the west, he slipped through, and from the outside helped the girl to follow.
At that moment they heard the sound of feet on the hard earth floor of the ramada. Some one was coming toward that end of the house. With his lips to the girl’s ear, Natachee bade her lie down. She obeyed instantly, and the Indian, knife in hand, crept to the corner of the building, toward which the sound was approaching, where he stood, flattened against the wall.
The man who was coming along the front of the house walked leisurely to the end of the ramada and stood almost within reach of the Indian’s hand, looking out toward the west and toward the corrals. Natachee was as motionless as the wall against which he stood. Had the fellow gone a step farther or turned his head to look past the corner of the building, he would have died that same instant. Presently he turned and started back toward his companions, calling to them in Mexican as he did so:
“It is strange that they are so late. They should have been here an hour ago.”
In a flash Natachee was again at Marta’s side. Lifting her to her feet, he whispered: