For, when he had gone to pick up the second package, he had carried a brand from the fire to light his way, and he had seen footprints in the soft clay.
They had not been made by Señora Vallejo, for he had noticed three evenings before down by the creek that the feet of Señora Vallejo were not of the daintiest. Neither had they been made by some Indian woman from one of the huts, since those women always wore moccasins.
They had been made by two tiny shoes with fashionable heels, such as might have been imported from Mexico for the daughter of a wealthy rancho owner!
CHAPTER VI
VISITORS
The fire died down for lack of fuel, until only a small bed of coals remained to glow like a great red eye in the black night. There was no moon. The caballero, warm and dry, had spread his cloak on the ground and was stretched upon it, half asleep, listening to the rushing of the creek and the screeching of the wind that swept up the valley from the sea.
He sensed the presence of human beings near him, and without changing his position on the cloak he let his right hand slip slowly along his side until it gripped the butt of his pistol. And there he remained, trying to pierce the black night with his eyes, ears strained to catch the slightest sound.
His horse snorted in sudden fear; the caballero gripped the pistol tighter, half minded to spring to his feet, yet declining to do so for fear it might be some prowling neophyte attempting to frighten him and carry a tale back to the huts in the plaza of how the caballero had been stricken with fear in the night.
“Señor!” The warning hiss seemed to come from a great distance, borne on the raging wind. He knew it was an Indian who spoke; and the inflection of the single word expressed that the speaker was merely trying to attract his attention, not threatening, not warning of some imminent peril.
The caballero rolled over slowly and sat up, yawning behind his hand, like a man displeased at an interruption. Though every sense was alert, there was nothing in his manner to indicate to a watcher that he had been startled or that the unknown voice out of the night had carried fright to him.
He looked across the bed of coals, and saw nothing. He glanced at either side, but no leering face came from the blackness, no dark form slipped toward him, knife in hand to attack, or finger on lips to caution silence. The horse snorted again.