“Why, it is simply this—in the first place, for the reasons I have given, the fellow will hang around the settlement. He may visit now and then the old hechicera, but not often. The other would be a better decoy.”
“You mean her?” Vizcarra indicated the direction of the room in which Rosita was confined.
“I do. He is said to be foolishly fond of this sister. Now, were she in a place where he could visit her, I’ll warrant he would come there; and then we could trap him at our pleasure.”
“In a place!—where?” eagerly demanded Vizcarra.
“Why, back to her own neighbourhood. They’ll find some residence. If you will consent to let her go for a while, you can easily recover her—the more easily when we have settled with him!”
“Consent, Roblado!—it is the very thing I desire above all things. My mind will not be easy while she is here. We are both in danger if such a report should get in circulation. If it should reach certain ears, we are ruined—are we not?”
“Why, now there is some truth in what you say, Garcia’s death must be reported, and the cause will be inquired into. We must have our story as plausible as it can be made. There must be no colour of a suspicion—no rumour! It will be well to get her off our hands for the present.”
“But how—that it is that troubles me—how, without increasing the chances of suspicion? If we send her home, how is it to be explained? That would not be the act of Indians? You said you had some plan?”
“I think I have. But first tell me, colonel, what did you mean by saying she was mad?”
“That she was so; is so still,—so says José,—within the hour, muttering strange incongruities—knows not what is said to her. I tell you, Roblado, it terrified me.”