Surely La Senorita could stay. Why not? Pablo was to protect her, not to keep her a prisoner.
She laughed quietly. "I believe you would do anything for me, Pablo."
"I would protect La Senorita with my life," he answered simply.
"I believe you would, Pablo; and so would Tex and Pat and Abe. You are all so good to me and I—I feel so good for nothing—so useless."
In the darkness the musical voice of Pablo answered: "Our love for La Senorita is so great. It is like the desert in the gentle moonlight, so big and wide. It is like the soft night under the stars, so deep. Everybody so loves La Senorita, and anyone loved that way cannot be what you say—good for nothing. Sometime men love like the sun on the desert in day time—fierce and hot, and that is different; that makes sometimes trouble—sometime make men kill. It is not good, La Senorita, but it is so."
They heard a galloping horse coming nearer and nearer. Barbara touched her companion's arm and Pablo laid a hand on his revolver. Was it Abe? Was it someone to say that the mob was coming?
The horse and rider passed and the sound of their going died away in the stillness of the night.
"Pablo, what time will they go to the power house?"
"Any time now, Senorita."
Barbara spoke quickly—eagerly now. "Are there not a good many of your countrymen from Rubio City among them, Pablo?"