For a while Blanca leaned on Walthew's arm, and he winced as he felt her limping movements, but at last she stopped.
"I cannot go much farther, but there is a house near here," she said. "We can rest when we reach it."
The house proved to be empty and in some disorder, suggesting that its occupants had hurriedly fled, but on searching it with a light they found some food, a little charcoal, and an iron cooking pot. Blanca and Walthew had made a long journey after their last meal and Grahame had eaten nothing since his very plain breakfast at ten o'clock.
Following the girl's instructions, he lighted the charcoal and set the pot near the door while she prepared the food, but Walthew lay down in the dust outside. He was physically tired, and now, when he imagined they were comparatively safe, he felt very slack and his mind was dull. For all that, he lay where he could see the road, and only moved his eyes from it when he glanced into the small adobe building. The charcoal made a faint red glow that forced up the face of the stooping girl out of the darkness and touched her skin with a coppery gleam. Grahame knelt beside her, a dark, vaguely outlined figure, fanning the fire, and Walthew felt half jealous that he should help.
Then he found himself getting drowsy, and, lighting a cigarette, he fixed his eyes resolutely on the road. All was very quiet, and there was not a movement anywhere.
But Blanca was not out of danger yet.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE AMERICAN TRADER
Walthew was almost dozing, when he was startled by a sound that came out of the darkness. It was some distance off, but it had a regular beat in it, and when it grew louder he could not doubt that some one was riding fast up the road.
"Move the fire back—there's somebody coming!" he called quickly. "Blanca, will you give Grahame your pistol?"