even at that, General, you've got to give him credit. He
says she bewitched him, and he couldn't kill her, and he wouldn't let
the others have her. Also he risked a whale of a beating up, and some
lead souvenirs, in trying to save her, even if it was for himself. So
you see, Marto was only extra human, and is a good man. His heart's
about broke to think he failed you, and I'll bet he wouldn't fail you
again in a thousand years!"

"Yes, you have the right of that," agreed Rotil. "I did not know; I
don't know yet what this means about Perez and--and----"

"None of us do, General," stated Kit. "I heard Valencia say it must be
something only a confessor could know,--but it must be rather awful at
that! She was started north like an insane criminal, hidden and in
chains. She explains nothing, but General, you have now the two men at
Soledad who made the plan, and you have here Marto who was their
tool--and perhaps--at Soledad--" he paused questioning.

"Sure! that is what will be done," decided Rotil. "See to it, you,
after we are gone. Bring Dona Jocasta to Soledad with as much show of
respect as can be mustered in a poor land, your girl and Isidro's wife
to go along, and any comforts you can find. Yes, that is the best!
Some way we will get to the bottom of this well. She must know a lot
if they did not dare let her live, and Marto--well, you make a good
talk for him, straight too--Marto will go with me. Tell no one
anything. Make your own plans. By sunset I will have time for this
mystery of the chains of Dona Jocasta. Be there at Soledad by
sunset."

"At your command, General."

Then Chappo and Fidelio helped their leader into the saddle. Marto,
crestfallen and silently anticipating the worst, was led out next; a
_reata_ passed around the saddle horn and circling his waist was
fastened back of the saddle. His hands were free to guide his horse,
but Chappo, with a wicked looking gun and three full cartridge belts,
rode a few paces back of him to see that he made no forbidden use of
them.

Kit watched them ride east while the long line of women of Palomitas
took up the trail over the mesa to the north. Their high notes of a
song came back to him,--one of those wailing chants of a score of
verses dear to the Mexican heart. In any other place he would have
deemed it a funeral dirge with variations, but with Indian women at
sunrise it meant tuneful content.

Kit listened with a shiver. Because of his own vagrant air