"Robert Cranston Murray, as my father's was before me. It was because he left me only my name that I left England to seek my fortune. Oh, Steve! I must find my way back now. Rita will be the lady of Cranston Hall!"
"Instead of the squaw of some Apache horse-stealer!"
Steve felt a little like dancing, and a good deal like tossing up his hat and venting his feelings by a good hurrah, but the next thought was a sober one.
"How are we ever to get them to give up Rita?"
Murray was thinking the same thought just then, and it seemed to him as if he must go out to the door of the lodge for a little breath of fresh air.
The chief and his councillors were nowhere to be seen, but there was Mother Dolores by the camp-fire.
Murray tried hard to assume a calm and steady face and voice as he strode forward and stood beside her. He spoke to her in Spanish.
"Well, Dolores, which do you like best, cooking for Mexican miners or for the great chief?"
She dropped her stew-pan and stood looking at him for a moment, drawing her breath hard, and then she exclaimed,
"I was right. It is Señor Murray. Ah, señor, it is so long ago! The poor señora—"