Two men rode into view in the bend of the arroya. A cartridge belt across each shoulder, and one around each waist, was the most important part of their equipment.
“Buenos dias, señors,” said one politely, while his little black eyes roved quickly over the group. “Is there still water to be found in the well here? Dios! it is the heat of hell down there in the valley.”
“At your service, señor, is water fresh drawn,” said Rhodes, and turned to the girl, “Oija, Tulita!––water for the gentlemen. You ride far, señor?”
“From Soledad wells.”
“Yes, I know the brand,” remarked Rhodes.
“This is a good season in which to avoid too much knowledge, or too good a memory, señor,” observed the man who had not spoken. “Many herds will change hands without markets before tranquility is over in Mexico.”
“I believe you, señor, and we who have nothing will be the lucky ones,” agreed Rhodes, regarding the man with a new interest. He was not handsome, but there was a something quick and untamed in his keen, black eyes, and though the mouth had cruel hard lines, his tone was certainly friendly, yet dominating.
“What have you here?” he asked with a gesture toward Miguel.
“My Indian who tried to save his women from slavers, and was left for dead,” stated Rhodes frankly.
“And this?”