“Felix—he hide back there—in trail,” she panted. “Margarita watch—she know—she go round.”
The girl labored under extreme agitation, which, however, did not seem to be fright.
“Felix? You mean the Mexican who drew a knife on your father? The fellow I threw around—up at Picacho?”
“Si—señor,” replied Margarita.
“Well, what of it? Why does Felix hide up in the trail?”
“Felix swore revenge. He kill you.”
“Oh-ho!... So that’s it,” ejaculated Adam, and he whistled his surprise. A hot, tight sensation struck deeply inside him. “Then you came to find me—warn me?”
She nodded vehemently and clung to him, evidently wearied and weakening.
“Margarita, that was good of you,” said Adam, earnestly, and he led her out of the sun into the shade of the tree. With his handkerchief he wiped the blood from thorn scratches on her cheek. The dusky eyes shone with a vastly different light from the lurid hate of a few hours back. “I thank you, girl, and I’ll not forget it.... But why did you run out in the sun and through the thorns to warn me?”
“Señor know now—he kill Felix before Felix kill him,” replied Margarita, in speech that might have been naïve had its simplicity not been so deadly.