“Did it particularise the time you expected to reach Albuquerque?”
“Yes; as far as I could fix that, if I remember rightly, it did.”
“And the route you were to take?”
“That too. When I wrote the letter I intended to make trial of a new trail lately discovered—up the Canadian, and touching the northern end of the Staked Plain. I did make trial of it, alas! with lamentable result. But why do you ask these questions, Colonel Miranda?”
The colonel does not make immediate answer. He appears more meditative than ever, as though some question has come before his mind calling for deliberate examination.
While he is thus occupied the ex-Ranger enters the room and sits down beside them. Walt is welcome. Indeed, Don Valerian had already designed calling him into their counsel. For an idea has occurred to the Mexican Colonel requiring the joint consideration of all three. Turning to the other two, he says,—
“I’ve been thinking a good deal about the attack on your caravan. The more I reflect on it the more I am led to believe that some of the Indians who plundered you were painted.”
“They were all painted,” is the reply of the young prairie merchant.
“True, Don Francisco; but that isn’t what I mean.”
“I reckon I knows what ye mean,” interposes the ex-Ranger, rising excitedly from his chair on hearing the Mexican’s remark. “It’s been my own suspeeshun all along. You know what I tolt ye, Frank?”