They made their way to the kitchen, and started a blaze with mesquite bark. The old Indian cut off some strips of burro jerke and threw them on the coals.
“That is better, it’s an occupation anyway,” conceded Kit chewing with much relish. “Now, Isidro, man, you must go on. You know the land best. How is one to hide a woman of beauty from desert men?”
“She may have a plan,” suggested Isidro.
“Where is Clodomiro?” asked Kit, suddenly recalling that the boy had disappeared. The old man did not answer; he was very busy with the fire, and when the question was repeated he shook his head.
“I do not know who went. If Tula did not go, then Clodomiro was the one. They were talking about it.”
“Talking,––about what?”
“About the German. He is caught at Soledad, and must not be let go, or let die. All the Indians of Palomitas will be asking the Deliverer for that man.”
“Isidro, what is it they want to do with him?” asked Kit, and the old Indian ceased fussing around with a stick in the ashes, and looked up, sinister and reproving.
“That, señor, is a question a man does not ask. If my woman tells me the women want a man for Judas, I––get that man! I ask nothing.”
“Good God! And that child, Tula––” began Kit in consternation, and old Isidro nodded his head.