“Only a word or two. He speaks English, or, as we call it, American.”
“Can he read?”
“Indifferently. Enough, I suppose, for—”
“Señor,” she says, interrupting him, “I need not ask if you can write. Take this, and put it in your own language. Say you are gone south, due south, to a distance of about six miles. Tell your friend to stay here till some one comes to meet and conduct him to where you’ll be found.”
Hamersley perceives the rationality of these instructions. There is no reason why he should not do as desired, and go at once with her who gives them. By staying some mischance might still happen, and he may never see his fair rescuer again. Who can tell what may arise in the midst of that mysterious desert? By going he will the sooner be able to send succour to his comrade.
He hesitates no longer, but writes upon the piece of paper—in large, carefully-inscribed letters, so that the ci-devant Ranger need have no difficulty in deciphering them:—
“Saved by an Angel.—Strike due south. Six miles from this you will find me. There is a horse, and you can take up his tracks. If you stay here for a time, one will come and guide you.”
The huntress takes the paper from his hand, and glances at the writing, as if out of curiosity to read the script of a language unknown to her. But something like a smile playing around her lips might lead one to believe she has divined the meaning of at least the initial sentence.
She makes no remark, but stepping towards the yucca and reaching up, impales the piece of paper on one of its topmost spikes.
“Now, caballero,” she says, “you mount my mare. See, she stands ready for you.”