Kit tried to recall where he had heard the name, but failed. No one had chanced to mention that Miguel, the peaceful Piman, had any claims on famous antecedents. He had always seemed a grave, silent man, intent only on herding the stock and caring for the family, at the little cluster of adobes by the well of Palomitas. It was about two miles from the ranch house, but out of sight. An ancient river hill terminated in a tall white butte at the junction of two arroyas, and the springs feeding them were the deciding influence regarding location of dwellings. Rhodes could quickly perceive how a raid could be made on Palomitas and, if no shots were fired, not be suspected at the ranch house of Mesa Blanca.
The vague sentences of Miguel were becoming more connected, and Kit, holding him in the saddle, was much puzzled by some of them.
“It is so, and we are yet dying,” he muttered as he swayed in the saddle. “We, the Yaqui, are yet dumb as our fathers bade. But it is the end, señor, and the red gold of Alisal is our own, and–––”
Then his voice dwindled away in mutterings and Rhodes saw that the Indian girl was very alert, but watching him rather than her father as she padded along beside him.
“Where is it––Alisal?” he asked carelessly, and her velvet-black eyes narrowed.
“I think not anyone is knowing. It is also evil to speak of that place,” she said.
“What makes the evil?”
“Maybe so the padres. I no knowing, what you think?”
But they had reached the place of camp where Cap Pike had the packs on the animals, waiting and restless.
“Well, you’re a great little collector, Bub,” he observed. “You start out on the bare sand and gravel and raise a right pert family. Who’s your friend?”