“Oh, be reasonable, Cap!” protested Kit. “Buntin’ isn’t gone––she’s right alongside here, waiting for breakfast.”
“You’re shoutin’ she’s here; so is every dragged-to-death skate you hit camp with! It’s Billie’s crackerjack mules, the pick of the ranch, that the bare-legged greasy heathen hit the trail with! And every water bag!”
“Well,” decided Kit, verifying the water statement by a glance at the barrels, “no one is to blame. The boy didn’t want to come this trail. He stuck until we were over the rough of it, and then he cut loose. A pair of mules isn’t so bad.”
“Now, of course not!” agreed Cap sarcastically. “A mere A-number-one pair of mules belonging to another fellow is only a flea bite to offer a visitor for supper! Well, all I got to say–––”
“Don’t say it, Cap dear,” suggested Billie. “The Indian was here because of Doña Jocasta, and she can’t help it! As she doesn’t understand English, she’ll probably think you’re murdering some of us over here. Whist now, and put your muzzle on! We’ll get home without the two mules. I’ll go and tell her that the hysterics is your way of offering morning prayers!”
She slipped away, laughing at his protests, but when a little past the fire place she halted, standing very still, peering beyond at something on the ground under the greasewood where the serape of Doña Jocasta had been spread. No serape or sleeper was there!
Kit noted her startled pause, and in a few strides was beside her; then, without a word, the two went forward together and he picked up the package of papers laid carefully under the greasewood. He knew without opening them what they were,––the records made for her safety, and for his, in Soledad, place of tragedies.
“They are the papers I was to put on record for her in case––Well, I’ll do it, and you’ll take care of the copies for her, Billie, and––and do your best for the girl if a chance ever comes. We owe her a lot more than she will ever guess,––our gold come out of Mexico under the guard arranged for her, and when I come back–––”
“But Kit,” protested Billie, “to think of her alone with that thieving Indian! He took flour and bacon too! And if she hopes to find her husband–––”
“She doesn’t,” concluded Kit thoughtfully turning over the certificate signed by the padre and him, of the husband’s safe burial in the sands of Soledad. He glanced at Billie in doubt. One never knew how safe it was to tell things,––some things,––to a woman; also Billie was so enchanted by Jocasta’s sad beauty, and–––