Beyond, on the other side of the fire, and out of the circle of light, Clodomiro bore the serape of Doña Jocasta, and made clear the place for her couch. She had returned to the light of the fire and was scanning again the annoying paper of the Americanos. Especially that remembered face of the audacious eyes. They were different eyes in these latter days, level and cynical, and sometimes cruel.
“He calls,” said Clodomiro again beside her. She had not heard him, and turned in anger that he dare startle her.
“Who does he call?” she asked irritably tossing aside the paper.
“All Mexico, I think. All Mexico’s heart,” and he touched his breast. “Me, I do not sleep. I do your work and when the end of the trail is yours, I ask, Excellencia, that you send me back that I find him again,––the Deliverer!”
“What did Ramon Rotil ever do for you that you fret like a chained coyote because his enemies are strong?”
“Not anything, Excellencia. Me, he would not know if I told him my name, but––he is the Deliverer who will help the clans. Also, she would go,––Tula. Sangre de Christo! there would be no chain strong enough to hold her back if his wounds cried for help.”
“If––his wounds cried for help!” repeated Doña Jocasta mechanically.
“It is true, Excellencia, El Gavilan was giving help to many people in the lands he crossed. Now the many will forget, and like a hawk with the weight of an arrow in his breast he will fly alone to a high nest of the hills. Death will nest with him there some night or some day, Excellencia. And the many will forget.”
“Quiet you!” ordered Doña Jocasta angrily.
Abashed, Clodomiro went silent, and with a murmured apology took himself into the shadows.