“It is Tula who asked. She is proving she is a woman; Clodomiro goes for her because that is his work. Your white way would be a different way,––of an alcalde and the word of many witness. Our women have their own way, and no mistake is made.”
“But Rotil, the general,––he will not permit–––”
“Señor, for either mother or grandmother the general had an Indian woman. He has the knowing of these things. I think Tula gets the man they ask for. She is wise, that child! A good woman will be chosen to have speech with the Deliverer––when they come.”
“There is a thought in that,” mused Kit, glancing sharply at the old man. “Do they make choice of some wise woman, to be speaker for the others? And they come here?”
“That is how it is, señor.”
“Then, what better way to hide Doña Jocasta than to place her among Indian women who come in a band for that task? Many women veil and shroud their heads in black as she does. The music of her voice was dulled when she spoke to Marto, and General Rotil had no memory of having ever heard it. Think,––is there to be found an old dress of your wife? Can it be done and trust no one? Doña Jocasta is clever when her fear is gone. With Tula away from that door the rest is easy. The dawn is not so far off.”
“Dawn is the time the women of Palomitas will take the road,” decided Isidro, “for by the rising time of the sun the Deliverer has said that his rest here is ended, and he goes on to Soledad where José Perez will have a trembling heart of waiting.”
“Will they tell him whose trap he is caught in?”
“Who knows? The Deliverer has plans of his own making. It was not for idleness he was out of sight when the trap was sprung. He sleeps little, does Ramon Rotil!”
In a mesquite tree by the cook house chickens began to crow a desultory warning. And Isidro proceeded to subtract stealthily a skirt and shawl from wooden pegs set in the adobe wall where Valencia slept. She startled him by stirring, and making weary inquiry as to whether it was the time.