“He called me mother,” she said, “poor boy, poor boy.”
She covered him over with cool boughs, with the thick green leaves still fresh upon them.
How long he slept he could not tell, but while it was yet dark, a rough voice very near, awoke him.
Opening his eyes and peering through the mass of foliage, he saw a gigantic Indian, surrounded by half a dozen younger men, all eating what appeared to be an early breakfast, and talking over some adventure in which they were about engaging.
From their conversation he learned that he was approaching the borders of the rich Arizona country; and he noticed, when the chief put up his ammunition (he was the only one who carried a gun), that the bullet was of pure gold.
He lay for some time motionless, carefully watching their movements. At one time he came very near being discovered.
One of the young Indians had mislaid his bow and arrow, and went to the pile of brush to look for it; but the old woman, whose mother’s heart had warmed to the perishing young stranger, drove the Indian boy away, with a sharp reproof for his carelessness in disturbing her basket of reeds, which were mingled with the concealing boughs.
At last the missing bow was found, and the company mounted and rode away.
Again silence fell upon the palm-shaded hut.
Still weary, Francisco lay quietly watching the old woman, as she moved about with a lighted taper, silently putting the things to rights; but at last she blew out the light, and lay down to rest upon a mat near the door, and in the darkness, the green oasis of the desert faded into the land of dreams.