Ten yards from his hiding-place, in the shade of the _jacal_, sat his Tonia calmly plaiting a rawhide lariat. So far she might surely escape condemnation; women have been known, from time to time, to engage in more mischievous occupations. But if all must be told, there is to be added that her head reposed against the broad and comfortable chest of a tall red-and-yellow man, and that his arm was about her, guiding her nimble fingers that required so many lessons at the intricate six-strand plait. Sandridge glanced quickly at the dark mass of pear when he heard a slight squeaking sound that was not altogether unfamiliar. A gun-scabbard will make that sound when one grasps the handle of a six-shooter suddenly. But the sound was not repeated; and Tonia’s fingers needed close attention. And then, in the shadow of death, they began to talk of their love; and in the still July afternoon every word they uttered reached the ears of the Kid. “Remember, then,” said Tonia, “you must not come again until I send for you. Soon he will be here. A _vaquero_ at the _tienda_ said to-day he saw him on the Guadalupe three days ago. When he is that near he always comes. If he comes and finds you here he will kill you. So, for my sake, you must come no more until I send you the word.” “All right,” said the stranger. “And then what?” “And then,” said the girl, “you must bring your men here and kill him. If not, he will kill you.” “He ain’t a man to surrender, that’s sure,” said Sandridge. “It’s kill or be killed for the officer that goes up against Mr. Cisco Kid.” “He must die,” said the girl. “Otherwise there will not be any peace in the world for thee and me. He has killed many. Let him so die. Bring your men, and give him no chance to escape.” “You used to think right much of him,” said Sandridge. Tonia dropped the lariat, twisted herself around, and curved a lemon-tinted arm over the ranger’s shoulder. “But then,” she murmured in liquid Spanish, “I had not beheld thee, thou great, red mountain of a man! And thou art kind and good, as well as strong. Could one choose him, knowing thee? Let him die; for then I will not be filled with fear by day and night lest he hurt thee or me.” “How can I know when he comes?” asked Sandridge. “When he comes,” said Tonia, “he remains two days, sometimes three. Gregorio, the small son of old Luisa, the _lavendera_, has a swift pony. I will write a letter to thee and send it by him, saying how it will be best to come upon him. By Gregorio will the letter come. And bring many men with thee, and have much care, oh, dear red one, for the rattlesnake is not quicker to strike than is ‘_El Chivato_,’ as they call him, to send a ball from his _pistola_.”