“A jacalé. I only know of that.”
Poindexter to one of the party, who understands Spanish: “A jacalé?”
“They give that name to their shanties.”
“To whom does it belong—this jacalé?”
“Don Mauricio, el musteñero.”
“Maurice the mustanger!” translates the ready interpreter.
A murmur of mutual congratulation runs through the crowd. After two days of searching—fruitless, as earnest—they have struck a trail,—the trail of the murderer!
Those who have alighted spring back into their saddles. All take up their reins, ready to ride on.
“We don’t wish to be rude, Miss Martinez—if that be your name; but you must guide us to this place you speak of.”
“It takes me a little out of my way—though not far. Come on, cavalleros! I shall show you, if you are determined on going there.”