"Oh!" she said. "How you frightened me! And I've waited hours. Oh, Joe!"
"Joe couldn't come—sent me."
"Mr. la Mancha!"
"At your service. I suppose you thought I was your lover's ghost."
"His ghost? Say, what d'you mean? Oh, Mr. la Mancha, he must have sent a letter, a message, something."
So she had not been told. It was damned awkward. I set my ax against the palisade. "Joe has been hurt," I explained as I bent over her, "shot in the fighting yesterday."
"Dead?" came her awestruck whisper.
"Dead. He told me to tell you."
"I must go to him," she sobbed.
"You needn't worry," I told her. "I got your letter out of his pocket and destroyed it. You're all right."