"A letter," said he, sullenly, "and Doña Ana raise the hell if you don't let me take it."
"Ah! The Doña Ana! I thought so. Doña Ana is an interesting little lady. Let me see the letter."
The man hesitated, but finally pulled the letter from his pocket. The sheriff took it and walked back to Bryton.
"I'm humoring your queer notion all I know how," he observed; "for I want you south with us instead of taking the back trail. You read Spanish; the letter is not sealed. Read it."
Bryton read it aloud, slowly. Ana had not minced her words.
"Rafael Arteaga:—
"For the love of God, come quick to Raquel. Among us, some way, I think we have killed her. That she is too good for you is no reason that you should let her ride alone with a heart-break. I think myself she does not want to live any more,—and no medicine cures that. Maybe you cannot cure it either, but it is your place to be here if she dies.
"Your cousin,
"Ana Carmencita Mendez."