The man swung from the saddle, awkwardly nursing his right arm.
“Yes this is a safe place, Doña Jocasta,” he declared. “It is all well arranged. With your permission I may assist you.”
He offered his left hand, but she looked from him to Valencia, and then to Clodomiro.
“You are young to be a stealer of women;––the saints send you a whiter road!” she said. “And you may help me, for my shoulder has a hurt from that first shot of the comrade of this man.”
“No, señora,” stated her captor, “the evil shot came from no comrade of mine. They did not follow us, those bandits––accursed be their names! They were hid in the cañoncita and jumped our trail. But have no fear, Doña Jocasta, they are left behind, and it will be my pleasure to nurse the wounds they have made.”
“Be occupied with your own,” she suggested pointing to his hand from which blood still dripped, “and you, mother, can show me the new prison. It can be no worse than the others.”
“Better, much better, little dove,” said Marto, who followed after the two women, and glanced over their shoulders into the guest chamber of the iron bars, “it is a bird cage of the finest, and a nest for harmonies.”
Then to Valencia he turned with authority, “When you have made the señorita comfortable, bring the key of the door to me.”
“Si, señor,” said Valencia bending low, and even as the prisoner entered the room, she changed the key to the outside of the door. Marto nodded his approval and turned away.
“Now this shirt off, and a basin of water and a bandage,” he ordered Isidro. “It is not much, and it still bleeds.”