“Señor, I do not think anyone thought again of those Indians. They are planting maize or cane somewhere along the Rio Sonora.”
Tula sank down weeping against the wall, while Valencia stroked her hair and patted her. Doña Jocasta regarded her curiously.
“To be young enough to weep like that over a sorrow!” she murmured wistfully. “It is to envy her, and not mourn over her.”
“But this weeping is of joy,” explained Valencia. “It is as the señor says, a blessing has come with you over the hard road. This child was also stolen, and was clever to escape. Her mother and her sister are yet there in that place where the maize is planted. If the boat has not taken them, then they also may get back. It is a hope!”
“Poor little one! and now that I could make good use of power, it is no longer mine,” said Jocasta, looking at Kit regretfully. “A young maid with courage to escape has earned the right to be given help.”
“She will be given it,” he answered quietly, “and since your patience has been great with my questions, I would ask more of this Cavayso we have trapped tonight. He is raging of curious things there across the patio. Isidro holds a gun on him that he subdue his shouts, and his offer is of rich bribes for quick freedom. He is as mad to get back to Soledad as he was to leave it, and he tells of a trap set there for someone. It concerns ammunition for the revolutionists.”
“No, not for them, but for trade in the south,” said Jocasta promptly. “Yes, Soledad has long been the place for hiding of arms. It was the task of Don Adolf to get them across the border, and then a man of Don José finds a safe trail for them. Sometimes a German officer from Tucson is of much help there in the north. I have heard Don José and Conrad laugh about the so easily deceived Americanos,––your pardon, señor!”
“Oh, we are used to that,” agreed Kit easily, “and it is quite true. We have a whole flock of peace doves up there helping the Hohenzollern game. What was the officer’s name?”
“A name difficult and long,” she mused, striving to recall it. “But that name was a secret, and another was used. He was known only as a simple advocate––James, the name; I remember that for they told me it was the English for Diego, which was amusing to me,––there is no sound alike in them!”
“That’s true, there isn’t,” said Kit, who had no special interest in any advocate named James. “But to get back to the man in the cell over there and the ammunition, may I ask if he confided to you anything of that place of storage? I mean Cavayso?”