"There is n.o.body about. Perhaps they have gone on, because they had news from people in the town, or something may have happened to make them change their plans."

Sitting down outside the building, they began to consider what must be done.

"We must go on without our mules," Blanca said. "I have information that my father must get as soon as possible; but we may not be able to join him until to-morrow night. The road is the nearest way, but now that Gomez has his orders he may have sent out soldiers to stop all travelers. Besides, there are _rurales_ about."

"Then we'll take to the mountains," said Walthew. He did not mean her to run a risk. "I guess they've disarmed Grahame, and with one pistol among us we couldn't put up much of a fight."

"There's another," Blanca returned quietly. "I might let Mr. Grahame have it, if he is a good shot, but he must give it back to me; and, as time is important, we will take the road."

She silenced Walthew's objections and they set off, striking into a broad track some distance farther on. For a time, it wound, deep with dust that clung about their feet heavy with the dew, across a belt of cultivated land where indistinct, orderly rows of coffee bushes ran back from its edge. Then it plunged into thick forest, where the soil was soft and the darkness impenetrable, and they stumbled along blindly, trying to feel their way. For all that, Grahame was conscious of keen satisfaction as he breathed the warm, night air. Heavy as it was, it seemed strangely invigorating after the foul atmosphere of the _carcel_ where he had been imprisoned, and it was something to walk at large again. Walthew, however, felt anxious and limp. He had been highly strung for several hours, and he held himself responsible for the safety of the girl he loved. Listening for sounds of pursuit, he tried to pierce the darkness in front, and started when a leaf rustled or some animal moved stealthily through the forest. He thought his footsteps rang down the branch-arched track alarmingly loud.

They came out into barren, rolling country, where clumps of cactus and euphorbia grew in fantastic shapes. The track led upward, and it was obvious that Blanca was getting tired. Unless they are the wives of peons, Spanish-American women do not lead an active life and, as a rule, limit their walks to an evening stroll in the plaza.

For a while Blanca leaned on Walthew's arm, and he winced as he felt her limping movements, but at last she stopped.

"I cannot go much farther, but there is a house near here," she said.

"We can rest when we reach it."

The house proved to be empty and in some disorder, suggesting that its occupants had hurriedly fled, but on searching it with a light they found some food, a little charcoal, and an iron cooking pot. Blanca and Walthew had made a long journey after their last meal and Grahame had eaten nothing since his very plain breakfast at ten o'clock.

Following the girl's instructions, he lighted the charcoal and set the pot near the door while she prepared the food, but Walthew lay down in the dust outside. He was physically tired, and now, when he imagined they were comparatively safe, he felt very slack and his mind was dull.

For all that, he lay where he could see the road, and only moved his eyes from it when he glanced into the small adobe building. The charcoal made a faint red glow that forced up the face of the stooping girl out of the darkness and touched her skin with a coppery gleam. Grahame knelt beside her, a dark, vaguely outlined figure, fanning the fire, and Walthew felt half jealous that he should help.

Then he found himself getting drowsy, and, lighting a cigarette, he fixed his eyes resolutely on the road. All was very quiet, and there was not a movement anywhere.

But Blanca was not out of danger yet.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

THE AMERICAN TRADER

Walthew was almost dozing, when he was startled by a sound that came out of the darkness. It was some distance off, but it had a regular beat in it, and when it grew louder he could not doubt that some one was riding fast up the road.

"Move the fire back--there's somebody coming!" he called quickly.

"Blanca, will you give Grahame your pistol?"

He used her name for the first time, and it thrilled him, but he had other things to think about. The faint glow of the charcoal vanished, and Grahame came out and stood listening.

"Stay where you are and guard the door!" he said. "I'll drop behind that bush, and then if the fellow gets down we'll have him between us."

Throwing away a cigarette he was smoking, he vanished into the gloom, and Walthew lay still with his heart beating fast. The drumming of hoofs grew slower as the rider climbed the hill before the house, but Walthew could not see him until he dismounted and came up the path, leading his mule. It was some comfort to realize that they had only one man to deal with, but if he was a spy of the President's, he must not get away.

Walthew, lying at full length, quickly worked his elbow into the dust to steady his pistol hand.

When the stranger was three or four yards away he stopped and looped the bridle round his arm. Then he put his hand into his pocket, and Walthew, with his nerves a-tingle, supposed that the man was searching for a match. In another moment he might have to shoot, and he held his breath as his finger tightened on the trigger. He heard the match sc.r.a.pe, a tiny flame flickered between the stranger's hands, and Walthew started as he saw his face. It was the man who had carried the President's orders into Rio Frio.

The light spread, falling on Walthew's rec.u.mbent figure and sparkling on his pistol, but the messenger did not throw it down as the American had half expected. Instead, he coolly held it up.

"I see you have me covered," he said. "Though it's a surprise to find you here, I'm not going to run away."

Walthew lowered his pistol.

"Very well. Leave your mule and go into the house. Will you tie up the animal, Grahame?"

"So there are two of you!"

The man did as he was told, and Walthew, following him, asked Blanca to get a light.

The girl had found a lamp which she placed on the ground, and the stranger looked at her sharply as she bent over it. n.o.body spoke until Grahame came in.

"Are you alone?" he asked the messenger.

"Quite."

"What's your name and business?"

"Carson, agent for the trading firm, Henniker and Gillatly."

"Where were you going and why did you come here?"

Carson turned to Walthew, who had been wondering whether he recognized him.

"I imagine this gentleman knows my business," he said. "He did me a service in Rio Frio which I'm glad to acknowledge. As a matter of fact, I stopped here to look for something to eat; the owner of this house is on the President's side. It's pretty plain, though, that he has cleared out. Taking it all round, I haven't had much luck this trip."

"Who warned you not to call at the _hacienda_ Perez?" Blanca asked.

"I don't know his name--he stopped me for a moment in the dark. I'm sorry I had to put one of your friends out of action, senorita, but I hadn't much choice, because he struck at me with his knife. For all that, I hope the man's not badly hurt."

"We expect him to recover."

"You seem to know this lady," Walthew broke in.

Carson smiled.

"I haven't had the pleasure of being presented, but I've seen Miss Sarmiento once or twice, and it would be strange if I forgot her."

His easy good-humor disarmed Walthew.

"Did you deliver the President's despatches?" he asked.

"Yes. To tell the truth, I was glad to get rid of them--and I imagine Miss Sarmiento acted wisely in leaving the town. Now, however, I'm naturally curious to know what you mean to do with me."

"Will you give us your word not to tell any of the President's supporters that you have met us?"

"I'll promise with pleasure. I feel that I've done enough in carrying his despatches."