"That I have not had need of. Also there is
the record that the American murder at Granados was the crime of
Conrad."

"But, senora, there is one other paper among them.--I would have told
you yesterday if I had known your fear. I meant to wait until the
trail was ended, but----"

"Senor!" she breathed leaning toward him, her great eyes glowing with
dreadful question, "_Senor!_"

"I know the paper, for I signed it," said Kit staring in the leaping
blaze. "So did the padre. It is the certificate of the burial of Jose
Perez."

"Senor! _Madre de Dios!_" she whispered.

"Death reached him on his own land, senora. We passed the grave the
first day of the trail."

Her face went very white as she made the sign of the cross.

"Then he--Ramon----?"

"No,--the general did not see Perez on the trail. He tried to escape
from Cavayso and the man sent a bullet to stop him. It was the end."

She shuddered and covered her eyes.

Kit got up and walked away. He looked back from where he tethered the
mules for the night, but she had not moved. The little crucifix was in
her hand, he thought she was praying. There were no more words to be
said, and he did not go near her again that night. He sent Clodomiro
with her _serape_ and pillow, and when the fire died down to glowing
ash, she arose and went to the couch prepared. She went without glance
to right or left--the great fear had taken itself away!

Clodomiro rolled himself in a _serape_ not far from her place of rest,
but Kit Rhodes slept with the packs and with two guns beside him. From
the start on the trail no man had touched his outfit but himself. He
grinned sometimes at thought of the favorable report the men of Rotil
would deliver to their chief,--for the Americano had taken all
personal care of the packs and chests of Dona Jocasta! He was as an
owl and had no human need of sleep, and let no man help him.

The trail to the canon of the Rio Seco was a hard trail, and a long
day, and night caught them ere they reached the rim of the dry wash
where, at long intervals, rain from the hills swept down its age-old
channel for a brief hour.

Dona Jocasta, for the first time, had left the saddle and crept to the
rude couch afforded by the piled-up blankets in the wagon; Clodomiro
drove; and Kit, with the mules, led the way.

A little water still swished about in their water bottles, but not
enough for the mules. He was more anxious than he dared betray, for it
was twenty