How had El Coyote got hold of it? He must have had it from José!
Was her servant a traitor? Or had Diaz met him on the way, and forced the letter from him?
To either of these questions an affirmative answer might be surmised.
On the part of Diaz such an act would have been natural enough; and as for José, it is not the first time she has had reason for suspecting his fidelity.
So run her thoughts as she re-ascends the slope, leading up from the river bottom.
The summit is gained, and the opening entered; Isidora now riding side by side with the mayor-domo.
No Miguel Diaz there—no man of any kind; and what gives her far greater chagrin, not a scrap of paper!
There is her hat of vicuña wool—her seraph of Saltillo, and the loop end of her lazo—nothing more.
“You may go home again, Señor Benito! The man thrown from his horse must have recovered his senses—and, I suppose, his saddle too. Blessed be the virgin! But remember, good Benito Secrecy all the same. Entiende, V?”
“Yo entiendo, Doña Isidora.”