“That is true, Capitan,” spoke Doña Jocasta, who drooped in the saddle like a wilted flower. “But the señora will not die, and if she does it is not so much loss as the smallest of the soldiers of El Gavilan. We will go on, and go quickly, see!––there is yet water in the cantin, and four hours of trail is soon over.”
Ugly Chappo came shyly forward and, uncovered, touched the hem of her skirt to his lips.
“The high heart of the excellencia gives life to the men who fight,” he said and thrust his hand in a pocket fastened to his belt. “This is to you from the Deliverer, señora. His message is that it brought to him the lucky trail, and he would wish the same to the Doña Jocasta Perez.”
It was the little cross, once sent back to her by a peon in bitterness of soul, and now sent by a general of Mexico with the blessing of a soldier.
“Tell him Jocasta takes it as a gift of God, and his name is in her prayers,” she said and turned away.
Clodomiro pushed forward,––a very different Clodomiro, for the fluttering bands of color were gone from his arms and his hair––the heart of the would-be bridegroom was no longer his. He was stripped as for the trail or for war, and fastened to his saddle was the gun and ammunition he had won from Cavayso who had gone quickly onward with his detachment of the pack.
But Clodomiro halted beside Chappo, regardless of need for haste on the trail, and asked him things in that subdued Indian tone without light, shade, or accent, in which the brown brothers of the desert veil their intimate discourse.
“There, beyond!” said Chappo, “two looks on the trail,” and he pointed west. “Two looks and one water hole, and if wind moves the sand no one can find the way where we go. It is not a trail for boys.”
“I am not now a boy,” said Clodomiro, “and when the safety trail of the señora is over–––”
But Chappo waved him onward, for the wagon and the pack mules, and even little gray Bunting had turned reluctant feet north.