“Si, I see dat!” she exclaimed, leaning eagerly forward, her head between her hands.  “Eet vas ver’ good vay.  But you tink dar be fight soon?  You tink so?  Beell, he tink so?  Den you no like dat de Senor Brown be avay?  No, no, you no like be lef’ alone ven de fight come?  He big, strong, brav’; he bettah as ten men, hey?  Eet vas so, I tell you.  I go vis de message, si; Senor Brown he stay here.  Vould not dat be de bettah?”

Winston shifted uneasily upon his cracker-box, his gaze wandering from the animated face confronting him to that of the other farther back amid the shadows, still grave and full of doubt.

“You?” he exclaimed in surprise.  “Surely you do not suppose we would ever permit you to attempt such a thing.”

“No?  An’ vy not, senor?” springing impulsively to her feet, her eyes opening wide.  “Maybe you tink I not know how ride?  Maybe you tink I vas ’fraid of de dark? or dat I lose my vay?  You tink me leetle girl,” and she snapped her fingers indignantly.  “Do dat?  Of course I do dat! Sapristi!  Eet vas easy.  Just ride twenty mile.  Bah!  I do dat lots o’ times.  My pony he take me in tree, four hour sure.  He nice pony, an’ he lofe Mercedes.”

“But you do not know the way, girl, and the ride must be made at night.”

“De vay—­poof!  You speak ver’ foolish.  De vay?—­you tink I cannot find de vay!  Vy, I Mexicana, senor; I know de vay of de desert; I read de sign here, dar, everyvere, like miladi does de book.  I know how; si, si.  Senor Brown he show me how get down de side of de mountain, den I know de res’.  Twenty mile south to de rail; I read de stars, I feel de wind, I give de pony de quirt, and it vas done—­bueno!”

Winston sat silently watching her, impressed by the earnestness of her broken English, the eloquent energy of her gesticulations.

“Vas dat not de bettah vay, senor?  I no good here; I just girl in de vay, an’ ven de fight come maybe I be ’fraid.  But Senor Brown he not git ’fraid; he fight hard, more as ten men.  So I help too; I just ride de pony, but I help.  I go San Juan; I see de Distric’ Attorney.”  She clapped her hands, laughing at the thought.  “Si, I know de Distric’ Attorney ver’ veil.  He tink Mercedes ver’ nice girl; he tink I dance bettah as any he ever saw; he say so to me.  He do vat Mercedes vant, vat she say vas de right ting—­sure he do.  Vas dat not de bettah, senor?”

“Possibly,” yet secretly questioning her motives, “but—­but really, you know, I always supposed you to be a friend of Farnham’s!”

The girl instantly flushed crimson to the roots of her black hair, bringing her hands together sharply, her eyes straying from Winston to the suddenly uplifted face of Miss Norvell.

“No, no,” she said, at last, her voice softer.  “He vas not to me anyting!  She know how it vas; maybe she tell you sometime.  Not now, but sometime.  I jus’ vant do right.  I vant serve Senor Brown, not dat Farnham no more.  No, no! once, maybe, I tink dat man ver’ nice; I tink him good friend; he say much promise Mercedes.  Now I tink dat no more—­I know he lie all de time; I see tings as dey vas right, an’ I try be good girl.  You sabe all dat, senor?”