“And you’re a gentleman,” returned the governor, with a bow, “I could find it in my heart to hang high as Haman without love or hate.”
Michael linked his arm in that of his excellency.
“Sure, you’re a broth of a lad, Señor Megales,” he said irreverently, in good, broad Irish brogue. “Here, me bye, where are you hurrying?” he added, catching at the sleeve of Frances Mackenzie, who was slipping quietly past.
“Please, Mr. O’Halloran, I’ve been up to the office after water. I’m taking it to Señorita Carmencita.”
“She doesn’t want water just now. You go back to the office, son, and stay there thirty minutes. Then you take her that water,” ordered O’Halloran.
“But she wanted it as soon as I could get it, sir.”
“Forget it, kid, just as she has. Water! Why, she’s drinking nectar of the gods. Just you do as I tell ye.”
Frances was puzzled, but she obeyed, even though she could not understand his meaning. She understood better when she slid back the panel at the expiration of the allotted time and caught a glimpse of Carmencita Megales in the arms of Juan Valdez.
CHAPTER XVII.
HIDDEN VALLEY
Across the desert into the hills, where the sun was setting in a great splash of crimson in the saddle between two distant peaks, a bunch of cows trailed heavily. Their tongues hung out and they panted for water, stretching their necks piteously to low now and again. For the heat of an Arizona summer was on the baked land and in the air that palpitated above it.