In a half hour Clodomiro came in sight again just as Kit rode in from the west.
“Get horses out of the corrals,” he called, “all of them. That trail has been long even from the railroad.”
It was done quickly, and the vaqueros rode out as Clodomiro reached the plaza.
“Tula?” asked Kit.
“Tula is as the living whose mind is with the dead,” said the boy. “Many are sick, some are dead,––the mother of Tula died on the trail last night.”
“Good God!” whispered Kit. “After all that hell of a trail, to save no one for herself! Where is Marto?”
“Marto walks, and sick ones are on his horse. I go back now that Tula has this horse.”
“No, I will go. Stay you here to give help to the women. Bring out beds in every corridor. Bring straw and blankets when the beds are done.”
Doña Jocasta put out her hand as he was about to mount.
“And I? What task is mine to help?” she asked, and Kit looked down at her gravely.