She was verging toward a spasm of terror. To quiet her, Rickard said that they would have other proof. And her husband would have no more power to hurt her; Maldonado’s crimes would protect her from him. He could see the struggle in her soul; he knew she wanted to say she had been lying to him. It was not that sort of revenge she wanted; she wanted her husband. She wanted him to help her get her husband back. The revenge sought to trap Lupe-- “When he gets out, he will kill me, señor.” “Ah, but that will be a long time, señora! And you will have protection. You will get a divorce-- He is your husband, señora? You are married to him?” She screamed at him. MacLean looked up from his note-book. “A divorce?” She was approaching hysteria. “_Si_, señor, he is my husband. We were married in a church. Never would I get a divorce from my husband. No, not Lucrezia Maldonado.” Rickard back-stepped, to calm her. It would be all right, anyway. She would be protected. He would see that Maldonado did not harm her. He would look out for her and the children, and she might stay here, in camp, until the thing was settled. In the meantime, she must rest-- He wanted to get rid of her. Maldonado and his villainy must wait. The Indians were waiting to be registered. They were to be sent to their camp, tribe by tribe. Forestier was waiting for him. MacLean was waiting-- “You will let me work for you, señor?” “There’s always work. I won’t have to send my washing to Yuma, and I haven’t had a button sewed on for months--nor has MacLean, nor Jenks--you can darn their socks, and help Ling with the beds; we can keep you busy, señora. And you can go back to the children pretty soon.” The terror was seizing her again. Before she could begin her pleading, he called to MacLean. “Ask Ling to find a tent for Señora Maldonado. Tell him to give her a good meal.” Her eyes appealed to Rickard over her shoulder. Her body wavered with fatigue. Her eyes were cavernous, with dark radiating shadows. “How did you get here?” “I walked, señor.” “Walked! You must be dead. Get to bed. You’ll be all right in the morning.” A twenty-mile walk to escape the cruelty of the brute whom she would not divorce because of a few priest-mumbled words! Not hers the sacrament of love, of vows mutually kept, yet he knew that he could not depend on her testimony to convict that scoundrel down the river. One glance from his eye, and she would be a shivering lump of fear again. He must trap the rogue. Some Indian, that was the plan. He would ask Coronel. Coronel, himself, could not play the game; Maldonado would not sell liquor to the white man’s friend. He was too wily for that. But some buck--Coronel would make the choice. An Indian who would go to the adobe, pretend intoxication; be clear-headed enough to betray him. That infernal place must be closed. The woman had come in the nick of time. Those tribes were to be guarded as restless children-- He went out to meet Forestier.