The fascinated eyes of Billie dwelt on Jocasta with endless wonder.
“And you came north with the guns and soldiers of Ramon Rotil,––how wonderful!” she breathed. “And if the newspapers tell the truth I reckon he needs the guns all right! Cap dear, where is that one José Ortego rode in with from the railroad as we were leaving La Partida?”
“In my coat, Honey. You go get it––you are younger than this old-timer.”
Jocasta followed Billie with her eyes, though she had not understood the English words between them. It was not until the paper was unfolded with an old and very bad photograph of Ramon Rotil staring from the front page that she whispered a prayer and reached out her hand. The headline to the article was only three words in heavy type across the page: “Trapped at last!”
But the words escaped her, and that picture of him in the old days with the sombrero of a peon on his head and his audacious eyes smiling at the world held her. No picture of him had ever before come her way; strange that it should be waiting for her there at the border!
The Indian boy at sight of it, stepped nearer, and stood a few paces from her, looking down.
“It calls,” he said.
It was the first time he had spoken except to make reply since entering the American camp. Doña Jocasta frowned at him and he moved a little apart, leaning,––a slender dark, semi-nude figure, against the green and yellow mist of a palo verde tree,––listening with downcast eyes.
Doña Jocasta looked from the pictured face to the big black letters above.
“Is it a victorious battle, for him?” she asked and Kit hesitated to make reply, but Billie, not knowing reason for silence, blurted out the truth even while her eyes were occupied by another column.