The emotions of the night and the uncertainty of what lay ahead left Rhodes and Doña Jocasta rather silent as they took the trail to the gruesome old hacienda called by Doña Jocasta so fearful and accursed. Many miles went by with only an occasional word of warning between them where the way was bad, or a word of command for the animals following.
“In the night I rode without fear where I dare not look in the sunlight,” said Jocasta drawing back from a narrow ledge where stones slipped under the hoofs of the horses to fall a hundred feet below in a dry cañon.
“Yes, señora, the night was kind to all of us,” returned Kit politely. “Even the accidents worked for good except for the pain to you.”
“That is but little, and my shoulder of no use to anyone. General Rotil is very different,––a wound to a soldier means loss of time. It is well that shot found him among friends for it is said that when a wolf has wounds the pack unites to tear him to pieces, and there are many,––many pesos offered to the traitor who will trap Rotil by any lucky accident.”
“Yet he took no special care at Mesa Blanca.”
“Who knows? He brought with him only men of the district as guard. Be sure they knew every hidden trail, and every family. Ramon Rotil is a coyote for the knowing of traps.”
She spoke as all Altar spoke, with a certain pride in the ability of the man she had known as a burro driver of the sierras. For three years he had been an outlaw with a price on his head, and as a rebel general the price had doubled many times.
“With so many poor, how comes it that no informer has been found? The reward would be riches untold to a poor paisano.”
“It might be to his widow,” said Doña Jocasta, “but no sons of his, and no brothers would be left alive.”
“True. I reckon the friends of Rotil would see to that! Faithful hearts are the ones he picks for comrades. I heard an old-timer say the Deliverer has that gift.”