“We came under orders from Lacy,” replied Moore confidently.  “You have seen us both before.”

“True, but not the lady; you will tell me about her?”

Sikes climbed down over the wheel.

“It is like this, senor,” he began.  “Lacy did not know your party was here; he thought you were all south for another month yet.  He would keep this girl quiet, out of the way for a time.  She is from New York, and knows too much.”

“From New York?” The quick eyes of the Mexican again sought her face.  “She is to be held prisoner?”

“Yes, senor.”

“Again the case of that man Cavendish?”

“We were not told, only ordered to bring her here and guard her until we heard otherwise.  It was not known you were back.”

“We came three hours ago; you see what we brought,” with a wave of the hand.  “All was clear above?”

“Not a sign; I searched with field-glasses.”

“Then I will ride with you to Mendez; ’tis well to have the matter promptly over with.”

The wagon, rumbled on, Moore urging the wearied team with whip and voice to little result.  Sikes remained on foot, glad of the change, striding along in front, while the Mexican rode beside the wheel, his equipment jingling, the sunlight flashing over his bright attire.  He made a rather gallant figure, of which he was fully conscious, glancing frequently aside into the shadow beneath the canvas top to gain glimpse of its occupant.  At last their eyes met, and he could no longer forbear speech, his English expression a bit precise.

“Pardon, senorita, I would be held your friend,” he murmured, leaning closer, “for it is ever a misfortune to incur the enmity of Senor Lacy.  You will trust me?”

“But,” she ventured timidly, “I do not know you, senor; who you may be.”

“You know Senor Mendez?”

She shook her head negatively.

“’Tis strange!  Yet I forget you come from New York.  They know him here on this border.  If you ask these men they will tell you.  Even Senor Lacy takes his orders from Pascual Mendez.  He care not who he kill, who he fight—­some day it come his turn, and then he liberate Mexico—­see?  The day is not yet, but it will come.”

“You mean he is a revolutionist?”

“He hate; he live to hate; to revenge the wrong.  Twice already he lead the people, but they fail him—­the cowards.  He return here where it is safe:  yet the right time will come.”

“But you, senor?”

“I am his lieutenant—­Juan Cateras,” and he bowed low, “and I ride now to tell him of his guest.”

She watched him as he spurred forward, proud of his horsemanship, and making every effort to attract her attention.  Moore turned in his seat, and grinned.

“Some tin soldier,” he said sneeringly, “that’s a feller I always wanted ter kick, an’ some day I’m a goin’ ter do it.”