m him as he rode into the
ranch plaza an hour later.

"You are to go to the _senorita_ at once and tell her how the gringo is,
Pablo." After a moment he added sullenly: "_Maldito_, how is the son of
a thief?"

"Sick, Pedro, sick unto death. The devil, as you say, may take him yet
without any aid from us," answered Pablo Menendez brusquely.

"Why does the _senorita_ send you every day to find out how he is? Can
she not telephone? And why should she care what becomes of the traitor?"
demanded Pedro angrily.

His brother shrugged. "How should I know?" He had troubles enough with
the fancies of another woman without bothering about those of the
_senorita_.

Valencia Valdes was on the porch waiting for her messenger.

"How is he, Pablo? Did you see the doctor and talk with him? What does
he say?"

"_Si, senorita_. I saw Doctor Watson and he send you this letter. They
say the American is a sick man--oh, very, very sick!"

The young woman dismissed him with a nod and hurried to her room. She
read the letter from the doctor and looked out of one of the deep adobe
windows into the starry night. It happened to be the same window from
which she had last seen him go hobbling down the road. She rose and put
out the light so that she could weep the more freely. It was hard for
her to say why her heart was so heavy. To herself she denied that she
cared for this jaunty debonair scoundrel. He was no doubt all she had
told him on that day when she had driven him away.

Yes, but she had sent him to pain and illness ... perhaps to death. The
tears fell fast upon the white cheeks. Surely it was not her fault that
he had been so obstinate. Yet--down in the depth of her heart she knew
she loved the courage that had carried him with such sardonic derision
out upon the road for the long tramp that had so injured him. And there
was an inner citadel within her that refused to believe him the sneaking
pup she had accused him of being. No man with such honest eyes, who
stood so erect and graceful in the image of God, could be so
contemptible a cur. There was something fine about the spirit of the
man. She had sensed the kinship of it without being able to put a finger
exactly upon the quality she meant. He might be a sinner, but it was
hard to believe him a small and mean one. The dynamic spark of
self-respect burned too brightly in his soul for that.

CHAPTER VI

JUANITA

The fifth day marked the crisis of Gordon's illness.