CHAPTER XIV
THE HAWK OF THE SIERRAS
“That is what we get, Tula, by gathering beauty in distress into our outfit,” sighed Kit. “She seems good foundation for a civil war here. Helen of Troy,––a lady of an eastern clan!––started a war on less, and the cards are stacked against us if they start scrapping. When Mexican gentry begin hostilities, the innocent bystander gets the worst of it,––especially the Americano. So it is just as well the latest Richard in the field does not know whose bullet hit him in the leg, and brought his horse down.”
Tula, who since their entrance to the civilized surroundings of Mesa Blanca, had apparently dropped all initiative, and was simply a little Indian girl under orders, listened impassively to this curious monologue. She evidently thought white people use many words for a little meaning.
“The Deliverer says will you graciously come?” she stated for the second time.
“Neither graciously, gracefully or gratefully, but I’ll arrive,” he conceded. “His politeness sounds ominous. It is puzzling why I, a mere trifle of an American ranch hand, should be given audience instead of his distinguished lieutenant.”
“Isidro and Clodomiro are talking much with him, and the man Marto is silent, needing no guard,” said Tula.
“Sure,––Rotil has the whole show buffaloed. Well, let’s hope, child, that he is not a mind reader, for we have need of all the ore we brought out, and can’t spare any for revolutionary subscriptions.”
Kit followed Tula into the sala where a rawhide cot had been placed, and stretched on it was the man of Yaqui Spring.
One leg of his trousers was ripped up, and there was the odor of a greasewood unguent in the room. Isidro was beside him, winding a bandage below the knee. A yellow silk banda around the head of Rotil was stained with red.