“Just one thing I thought of,” the little man answered slowly. “We have got to get Alfego on our side. If we can do that, we can keep out MacDougall and everybody else … buy when we get ready. We couldn’t pay Alfego much, but we could let him in on the railroad deal … something MacDougall won’t do. And Alfego, you know, is a _penitente_. He’s _hermano mayor_ (chief brother) up there. And all those little _rancheros_ are _penitentes_. It’s the strongest _penitente_ county in the State, and you know none of the _penitentes_ like gringos. None of those fellows like MacDougall; they’re all afraid of him. All they like is his money. You haven’t so much money, but you could spend some. You could give a few _bailes_. You are Mexican; your family is well-known. If you were a _penitente_, too.…” Cortez left his sentence hanging in the air. He nodded his head slowly, his cigar cocked at a knowing angle, looking at Ramon through narrowed lids. Ramon sat looking straight before him for a moment. He saw in imagination a procession of men trudging half-naked in the raw March weather, their backs gashed so that blood ran down to their heels, beating themselves and each other.… The _penitentes_! Other men, even gringos, had risen to power by joining the order. Why not he? It would give him just the prestige and standing he needed in that country. He would lose a little blood. He would win … everything! “You are right, _amigo_,” he told Cortez. “But do you think it can be arranged?” “I have talked to Alfego about it,” Cortez admitted. “I think it can be arranged.” CHAPTER XIX He was all ready to leave for Arriba County when one more black mischance came to bedevil him. Cortez came into the office with a worried look in his usually unrevealing eyes. “There’s a woman in town looking for you,” he announced. “A Mexican girl from the country. She was asking everybody she met where to find you. You ought to be more careful. I took her to my house and promised I would bring you right away.” Cortez lived in a little square box of a brick cottage, which he had been buying slowly for the past ten years and would probably never own. In its parlour, gaudy with cheap, new furniture, Ramon confronted Catalina Archulera. She was clad in a dirty calico dress, and her shoes were covered with the dust of long tramping, as was the black shawl about her head and shoulders. Once he had thought her pretty, but now she looked to him about as attractive as a clod of earth. She stood before him with downcast eyes, speechless with misery and embarassment. At first he was utterly puzzled as to what could have brought her there. Then with a queer mixture of anger and pity and disgust, he noticed the swollen bulk of her healthy young body. “Catalina! Why did you come here?” he blurted, all his self-possession gone for a moment. “My father sent me,” she replied, as simply as though that were an all-sufficient explanation.