"It is good you come, senor," said Valencia. "Here is a wound and the bullet under the skin. I have waited for Isidro to help but he is slow on the way."

"He is busy otherwise, but I will call him unless my own help will serve here. That is for the senora to say."

The eyes of the girl,--she was not more,--never left his face, and above the lace scarf she peered at him as through a mask.

"It is you who sent messenger to save an unhappy one you did not know?

You are the Americano of the letter?"

"At your service, senora. May that service begin now?"

"It began when that letter was written, and this room made ready," she said. "And if you can find the bullet it will end the unhappiness of this good woman. She weeps for the little bit of lead. It should have struck a heart instead of a shoulder."

"Ah, senora!" lamented Valencia, "weep like a woman over sorrows. It is a better way than to mock."

"G.o.d knows it is not for me to mock!" breathed the soft voice bitterly. "And if the senor will lend you his aid, I will again be in his debt."

Without further words Kit approached, and Valencia drew the cover from the shoulder and indicated where the ball could be felt.

"I cannot hold the shoulder and press the flesh there without making much pain, too much," stated Valencia, "but it must come out, or there will be trouble."

"Sure there will," a.s.serted Kit, "and if you or Tula will hold the arm, and Dona Jocasta will pardon me----"

He took the white shoulder in his two hands and gently traced the direction of the bullet. It had struck in the back and slanted along the shoulder blade. It was evidently fired from a distance and little force left. Marto had been much nearer the pursuer, and his was a clean cut wound through the upper arm.

The girl turned chalky white as he began slowly to press the bullet backward along its trail, but she uttered no sound, only a deep intake of breath that was half a sob, and the cold moisture of sickening pain stood in beads on her face.

All of the little barriers with a stranger were forgotten, and the shielding scarf fell away from her face and bosom, and even with the shadowed emerald eyes closed, Kit Rhodes thought her the most perfect thing in beauty he had ever seen.

He hated himself for the pain he was forcing on her as he steadily followed the bullet upward and upward until it lay in his hand.

She did not faint, as he feared she might, but fell back in the chair, while Valencia busied herself with the ointment and bandage, and Tula, at a word from Kit, poured her a cup of wine.

"Drink," he said, "if only a little, senora. Your strength has served you well, but it needs help now."

She swallowed a little of the wine, and drew the scarf about her, and after a little opened her eyes and looked at him. He smiled at her approvingly, and offered her the bullet.

"It may be you will want it to go on some shrine to a patron saint, senora," he suggested, but she did not take it, only looked at him steadily with those wonderful eyes, green with black lashes, shining out of her marble Madonna-like face.

"My patron saint traveled the trail with you, Senor Americano, and the bullet is witness. Let me see it."

He gave it into her open hand where she balanced it thoughtfully.

"So near the mark, yet went aside," she murmured. "Could that mean there is yet any use left in the world for me?"

"Beauty has its own use in the world, senora; that is why rose gardens are planted."

"True, senor, though I belong no more to the gardens;--no, not to gardens, but to the desert. Neither have I place nor power today, and I may never have, but I give back to you this witness of your great favor. If a day comes when I, Jocasta, can give favor in return, bring or send this witness of the ride tonight. I will redeem it."

"The favor is to me, and calls for no redemption," said Kit awkward at the regal poise of her, and enchanted by the languorous glance and movement of her. Even the reaching out of her hand made him think of Tula's words, 'a humming bird,' if one could imagine such a jewel-winged thing weighted down with black folds of mourning.

"A caged humming bird with broken wings!" and that memory brought another thought, and he fumbled the bullet, and gave the first steady look into those emerald, side-glancing eyes.

"But--there is a compact I should appreciate if Dona Jocasta will do me the favor,--and it is that she sets value on the life that is now her very own, and, that she forgets not to cherish it."

"Ah-h!" She looked up at him piteously a moment, and then the long lashes hid her eyes, and her head was bent low. "Sinful and without shame have I been! and they have told you of the knife I tried to use--here!"

She touched her breast with her slender ring-laden hand, and her voice turned mocking.

"But you see, Senor Americano, even Death will not welcome me, and neither steel nor lead will serve me!"

"Life will serve you better, senora."

"Not yet has it done so, and I am a woman--old--old! I am twenty, senor, and refused of Death! Jocasta Benicia they named me. Jocasta Perdida it should have been to fit the soul of me, so why should I promise a man whom I do not know that I will cherish my life when I would not promise a padre? Answer me that, senor whose name has not been told me!"

"But you will promise, senora," insisted Kit, smiling a little, though thrilled by the sadness of life's end at twenty, "and as for names, if you are Dona Perdida I may surely name myself Don Esperenzo, for I have not only hope, but conviction, that life is worth living!"

"To a man, yes, and Mexico is a man's land."

"Ay, it must be yours as well,--beautiful that thou art!" murmured Valencia adoringly. "You should not give yourself a name of sadness, for this is our Senor El Pajarito, who is both gay and of honesty.

He,--with G.o.d,--is your protection, and harm shall not be yours."

Dona Jocasta reached out and touched kindly the bent head of the Indian woman.

"As you will, mother. With hope and a singer for a shield, even a prison would not be so bad, El Pajarito, eh? Do you make songs--or sing them, senor?"

"Neither,--I am only a lucky bluff. My old partner and I used to sing fool things to the mules, and as we could out-bray the burros my Indio friends are kind and call it a singing;--as easy as that is it to get credit for talent in this beneficent land of yours! But--the compact, senora?"

Her brows lifted wearily, yet the hint of a smile was in her eyes.

"Yes, since you ask so small a thing, it is yours. Jocasta makes compact with you; give me a wish that the life is worth it."

"Sure I will," said Kit holding out his hand, but she shrunk perceptibly, and her hand crept out of sight in the black draperies.

"You have not, perhaps, ever sent a soul to G.o.d without absolution?"

she asked in a breathless hushed sort of voice. "No senor, the look of you tells me you have not been so unpardonable. Is it not so?"

"Why, yes," returned Kit, "it hasn't been a habit with me to start anyone on the angels' flight without giving him time to bless himself, but even at that----"

"No, no!" as he took a step nearer. "The compact is ours without handclasp. The hand of Jocasta is the hand of the black glove, senor."

He looked from her to the two Indians, the old woman kneeling beside Jocasta and crossing herself, and Tula, erect and slender against the adobe wall, watching him stolidly. There was no light on the subject from either of them.

"Pardon, I'm but a clumsy Americano, not wise to your meanings," he ventured, "and beautiful hands look better without gloves of any color."

"It may be so, yet I have heard that no matter how handsome a headsman may be, he wears a black mask, and hands are not stretched out to touch his."

"Senora!"