“Wish he’d come,” he thought impatiently, “wish—”
At that moment the hugest black man he had ever seen, bearing in one hand a rifle that was a veritable cannon and in the other a basket, rounded the corner of the house. He was closely followed by the American boy.
In a loose flannel blouse, corduroy knickers and high stout boots, Kirk looked quite fit and capable.
“Ready for any adventure,” was Pant’s mental comment.
“I hope I didn’t tire you waiting,” Kirk smiled at him. “The Spanish mother put up a bit of lunch for us—casaba bread, home made cheese, butter and wild honey. She insisted; so did Ramoncita. They are dears.”
“Real sports, I’d say,” Pant assented heartily. He could scarcely remember a time when the very mention of such strange and tasty food did not whet his appetite.
“Ramoncita?” he said after a moment. “Is that the girl with round cheeks and big dark eyes?”
“Yes. Ramoncita Salazar. Musical name, isn’t it? The real Spanish people of the highest class are wonderfully attune to all things artistic and beautiful. But we must be off. This black man will go along to help carry our stuff.”
The trail they followed was steep and rocky. It was not much of a trail. In places the bushes hung over it so thick and low that they were obliged to all but creep on hands and knees; again it was so smooth and steep that only by clinging to low growing shrubs could they go forward.
For all that, there was something of a trail. Here and there were suggestions of an ancient, permanently cut way. In three places Pant found his feet firmly planted upon steps which had been cut from the solid rock.