Her glance held a flash of mockery. She had seen many dirty, poverty-stricken mavericks of humanity, but never a more battered specimen than this gaunt, hollow-eyed tramp, black as a coal-heaver, whose flesh showed grimy with livid wounds through the shreds of his clothing. But beneath his steady look the derision died. Tattered his coat and trousers might be. At least he was a prince in adversity. The head on the splendid shoulders was still finely poised. He gave an impression of indomitable strength.
"I want Juan Otero," he said.
"To ride for Señor Crawford." Her white teeth flashed and she lifted her pretty shoulders in a shrug of mock regret. "Too bad he is not here. Some other day—"
"—will not do. I want him now."
"But I have not got him hid."
"Where is he? I don't want to harm him, but I must know. He took Joyce Crawford into the hills last night to Dug Doble—pretended her father had been hurt and he had been sent to lead her to him. I must save her—from Doble, not from Otero. Help me. I will give you money—a hundred dollars, two hundred."
She stared at him. "Did Juan do that?" she murmured.
"Yes. You know Doble. He's a devil. I must find him … soon."
"Juan has not been here for two days. I do not know where he is."
The dust of a moving horse was traveling toward them from the hills. A Mexican pulled up and swung from the saddle. The girl called a greeting to him quickly before he could speak. "Buenos dios, Manuel. My father is within, Manuel."