“It is you who sent messenger to save an unhappy one you did not know? You are the Americano of the letter?”
“At your service, señora. May that service begin now?”
“It began when that letter was written, and this room made ready,” she said. “And if you can find the bullet it will end the unhappiness of this good woman. She weeps for the little bit of lead. It should have struck a heart instead of a shoulder.”
“Ah, señora!” lamented Valencia, “weep like a woman over sorrows. It is a better way than to mock.”
“God knows it is not for me to mock!” breathed the soft voice bitterly. “And if the señor will lend you his aid, I will again be in his debt.”
Without further words Kit approached, and Valencia drew the cover from the shoulder and indicated where the ball could be felt.
“I cannot hold the shoulder and press the flesh there without making much pain, too much,” stated Valencia, “but it must come out, or there will be trouble.”
“Sure there will,” asserted Kit, “and if you or Tula will hold the arm, and Doña Jocasta will pardon me–––”
He took the white shoulder in his two hands and gently traced the direction of the bullet. It had struck in the back and slanted along the shoulder blade. It was evidently fired from a distance and little force left. Marto had been much nearer the pursuer, and his was a clean cut wound through the upper arm.
The girl turned chalky white as he began slowly to press the bullet backward along its trail, but she uttered no sound, only a deep intake of breath that was half a sob, and the cold moisture of sickening pain stood in beads on her face.