"I'm humoring your queer notion all I know how," he observed; "for I want you south with us instead of taking the back trail. You read Spanish; the letter is not sealed. Read it." Bryton read it aloud, slowly. Ana had not minced her words. "RAFAEL ARTEAGA:-- "For the love of God, come quick to Raquel. Among us, some way, I think we have killed her. That she is too good for you is no reason that you should let her ride alone with a heart-break. I think myself she does not want to live any more,--and no medicine cures that. Maybe you cannot cure it either, but it is your place to be here if she dies. "Your cousin, "Ana Carmencita Mendez." "You see," said Bryton, handing it back. "I told you." "I see," conceded the sheriff. "It reads all right, but there is always a chance of--" He folded the paper thoughtfully, and stared hard at the ground. "This is all a ticklish business, Bryton, and if Flores's friends have got wind of this little _pasear_ of ours, they may send all sorts of scare messages where they will do most good. These greasers have tricks of their own, and most of them are cousins--see?" "I see; but that is not a message of that sort. Does the boy take it, or do I?" "The boy takes it, and I'll send a man with him to be sure he takes that message and no other; and you, if you are so keen for the road, can ride south and investigate before Cousin Ana can expect any reply to her message." "I--ride alone to San Joaquin ranch?" "That's it! You've got the best horse in the bunch. If the whole outfit rides in, they'll get scared, but one man alone on his way to San Juan, that looks all right. You may chance on things worth while, when we finally catch up." "But there are other men--men who know the family better." "Not one would be so apt to note the points we need. The family is square, but of Cousin Ana there have been some curious things said. She is the one of the lot who openly claims El Capitan as cousin. That's all we really know, but keep your eyes open." "Let me see the letter again." The sheriff handed it to him and looked at him curiously as he half turned away to read it, and his eyes sought out the one statement: "I think myself she does not want to live any more, and no medicine cures that. Maybe you cannot cure it either, but it is your place to be here if she dies." He pulled his hat low over his eyes and gathered up the reins. "All right," he said, briefly. "I will go. Adios!" A little later, and only a cloud of dust marked the way in the south that he had gone; and the mist in his eyes, hidden so well from the sheriff, was dashed away by his hand, but came back again and again. "It is your place to be here if she dies," he repeated, grimly,--"my Dona Espiritu--my beloved! The message was written to him, but fate sent it first to me, and I--I will be with you to-night. You will not be again alone with the heart-break." [Music: _Indian Torture Chant._] CHAPTER XII