"Now, friends," he began, "who is going with me to Santa Fé? Don't all speak at once," he added in English for his own benefit, smiling grimly as he saw the blank look on their faces as he renewed his unwelcome proposal.
"Will you go, Benito?" he said, determined to press them one by one.
The Indian instead of replying conversed rapidly with the others. They had hoped that the transfer of Josefa to Stephens might have modified the American's absurd passion for what he considered to be justice.
"Look here, Don Estevan," began Benito, "it is better to wait. To-morrow, when Tito gets back, then——"
"Oh, nonsense!" broke in Stephens impatiently, "Tito mayn't be back for a week, and it makes no odds about him anyhow."
"But," interrupted Ramon, another of the chiefs, "we have got no horses here. You have your own mare, and the mule for Salvador, but we have none. When Tito comes back with your other mule——"
"Oh, Tito be bothered!" said the American. "I tell you we don't want him."
Suddenly there was a shout outside. A Mexican rider came tearing up the village, and reined his reeking horse on to his haunches at Stephens's door. Flakes of bloody foam flew from the bit, and the horseman's rowels were red. He sprang into the room, covered with sweat and dust from the road.
"The Señorita Sanchez!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "the Señorita Sanchez has been carried off by the Navajos in the night." All present leapt to their feet.
"What!" cried Stephens, "Manuelita?" He stood aghast.