“And he was kind to you?  In what way kind?”

The slim Mexican girl, always of the shyest, was bathed in blushes.  “He called me ... nina.  He ...”

“——­made love to you.”

A sensation as if the clothes were being torn from her afflicted Juanita.  Why did the Dona drag her heart out to look at it?  Nor did the girl herself know how much or how little Richard Gordon’s gay camaraderie meant.  She was of that type of women who love all that are kind to them.  No man had ever been so considerate as this handsome curly-headed American.  So dumbly her heart went out to him and made the most of his friendliness.  Had he not once put his arm around her shoulder and told her to “buck up” when he came upon her crying because of Pedro?  Had he not told her she was the prettiest girl in the neighborhood?  And had he not said, too, that she was a little angel for nursing him so patiently?

“Dona, I—­do—­not—­know.”  The words came out as if they were being dragged from her.  Poor Juanita would have liked the ground to open up and swallow her.

“Don’t you know, you little stupid, that he is playing with you, that he will not marry you?”

“If Dona Valencia says so,” murmured the Mexican submissively.

“Men are that way, heartless ... selfish ... vain.  But I suppose you led him on,” concluded Valencia cruelly.

With a little flare of spirit Juanita looked up.  Her courage was for her friend, not for herself.

“Senor Gordon is good.  He is kind.”

“A lot you know about it, child.  Have nothing to do with him.  His love can only hurt a girl like you.  Go back to your Pablo and forget the American.  I will see he does not trouble you again.”

Juanita began to cry again.  She did not want Senorita Valdes or anybody else interfering between her and the friend she had nursed.  But she knew she could not stop this imperative young woman from doing as she pleased.

“Now tell me how you know that Pablo has gone to injure the American.  Did he tell you so?”

“No-o.”

“Well, what did he say?  What is it that you know?” Valencia’s shoe tapped the floor impatiently.  “Tell me—­tell me!”

“He—­Pablo—­met me at the corral the day he left.  I was in the kitchen and he whistled to me.”  Juanita gave the information sullenly.  Why should Senorita Valdes treat her so harshly?  She had done no wrong.

“Yes.  Go on!”

If she had had the force of character Juanita would have turned on her heel and walked away.  But all her life it had been impressed upon her that the will of a Valdes was law to her and her class.

“I do not know ...  Pablo told me nothing ... but he laughed at me, oh, so cruelly!  He asked if I ... had any messages for my Gringo lover.”

“Is that all?”

“All ... except that he would show me what happened to foreign devils who stole my love from him.  Oh, Senorita, do you think he will kill the American?”