"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 Señor El Pajarito, who is both gay and of honesty. He,--with God,--is your protection, and harm shall not be yours."
Doña 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, señor?"
"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, señora?"
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 God without absolution?" she asked in a breathless hushed sort of voice. "No señor, 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, señor."
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."
"Señor, we arrive at nothing when making speech of me," she said with a little sigh. "Our ride was hard, and rest is best for all of us. Our friend here tells me there is supper, and if you will eat with me, we will know more of how all this has come about. It is strange that you, a lone Americano in this land, should plan this adventure like a bandit, and steal not only the major-domo of Soledad, but the woman he would steal!"