"You have been working most arduously, Senor Carson," said Quesada.
He was looking keenly at the American. Traces of fearful toil and many sleepless nights showed in Carson's face. His once square countenance was thinned into bony angles; there were heavy pouches under the eyes; and the eyes themselves were no longer merry, but severely, crisply blue.
With uneasy characteristic modesty, the American fidgeted at the canvas packs in his hands.
"Oh, yes; a trifle," he admitted reluctantly. "We've all been pretty busy. We had to shovel two infected cabanas over the cliff. The stream through the gorge carried the debris away. We've burned every rag and soiled bit of clothes and bedding in the pueblo. I tell you, I was mighty glad to help out in that task!"
He took the canvas packs in one hand and felt in his pocket, with the other, for the torn pages Quesada had given him. He ran his eyes quickly over the printed words. Presently he looked up. Quesada had not spoken in that spell of time. He noted now a little frowning knuckle on the young bandolero's forehead.
"You are worrying, Jacinto!" he said, sharp as an accusation.
Quesada was startled.
"Dios hombre!" he exclaimed. "It is but the truth."
"But why? The plague? Felicidad or her father?"
Quesada shook his head morosely.