Cabenza contrived to be in the way when someone was wanted to fill the water-jug of Holcomb. Ochampa, who for the moment had charge of the artillery officer, swooped down upon the peon and put him temporarily at the service of his guest to fetch and carry at his orders. So Pedro unpacked the belongings of the American officer and prepared what had to serve as the substitute for a bath. He was so adept at this that the captain privately decided to requisition him for his servant.
Having finished this and laid out towels, Cabenza brushed the boots of the captain outside while that gentleman splashed within the cabin. He chose the time while he was arranging the shaving-outfit on the table to convey a piece of information to Holcomb.
"What's that? An American woman—held captive at his house by Pasquale," repeated the soldier of fortune, astonished.
"A girl, not a woman. About eighteen, maybe," supplemented Cabenza, in Mexican, of course.
"A woman from the street, I reckon. And if you look into it you'll find she's here of her own free will."
Steve was now stropping a razor. His back was toward the officer, but without turning he could see him by looking in the glass.
"You've got the wrong steer, captain. She's as straight a girl as ever lived," answered Yeager in perfectly good English.
Holcomb sat up straight. "Turn round, my man," he ordered crisply.
The range-rider did as he was told. The light, blue-gray eyes of the officer bored into his.
"You're no Mexican," charged the Texan.