Tea made of Castillian rose petals, and all the other little helps of the herb family, were brewed and steamed in the kitchen of the ranch for the saving of Raquel from the grasp of a strength-sapping fever.

Conscience-stricken, Ana fought and argued against sending for Rafael. Every hour of the day and night she was willing to watch and work, if only Raquel's illness might pass without the cause of it being known; and she was certain that the cause was the shock of learning how narrowly she had escaped kidnapping at the hands of Rafael's enemy.

Sometimes, indeed, Raquel did murmur in her sleep of "Padre Libertad" and the water surging over her head; and then again it was "the altar—the altar—and the blood on the tiles of the temple"; then "the ring—the ring—the ring." Sometimes she would moan that the beautiful one with the happiness must not receive the ring—never the ring of Aztec witchery! Then her words would trail along in inarticulate whispers, and sink into brief periods of slumber.

Old Polonia, listening and watching, heard all. Of Padre Libertad and the dream of the water she cared not anything. Of the ring she understood, and was afraid lest a name be uttered. But when the girl moaned of the blood on the altar and on the floor of the temple, the old creature dropped in a cowering heap and screamed with fear, and begged with tears that the husband would come, and that a padre must come, for it was all of no use to do any more of anything; and that the mother of DoÑa Raquel had come from—from death, to tell of hidden things to her daughter, and it meant that death was in the home with them, and that DoÑa Raquel would never again sing with the birds, or gallop across the mesas!

Ana, trembling with fright and this assurance, almost smothered old Polonia, that the others might not hear the wild prophecy, but without further delay she sent a letter to Rafael, and the man who bore it was to spare neither horses nor himself on the errand.

The man rode well, and made only one halt to change a horse at a ranch. The sheriff of Los Angeles County, and many owners of ranches, were there. The sheriff looked at the rider and his reeking horse carefully.

"From where do you come?" he asked, and the man jerked his thumb toward the south.

"San Joaquin."

"What's up there?"

"Not anything, seÑor."

It never entered his head that a woman sick at the San Joaquin ranch would have interest for a party of horsemen who looked as if out for a hunt. But the party exchanged glances. One of them, a farmer who knew him, stepped forward.

"Where do you ride in such haste, if nothing is up?" he asked.

"I take a letter to Don Rafael; his wife is sick."

"Where?"

"At San Joaquin ranch, seÑor. Adios!"

He had his foot in the stirrup, when the sheriff laid his hand on his arm.

"Wait a bit," he said, quietly. "I think it is said that a picnic is given to-day by SeÑora Downing for DoÑa Raquel Arteaga who is visiting in Los Angeles. How can she be at the same time at the San Joaquin ranch?" "I know not anything of the picnic, seÑor, but I know a woman rode her horse into the ranch at dark last night, and they say it is DoÑa Raquel Arteaga; and she has a fever, and screams and laughs all night in the room of DoÑa Ana. I know, for I am called after I am asleep, to get wood for a fire. No one sleeps, and outside the window I hear all what she screams, and it is enough to freeze the blood,—all of altars where blood is, and a ring that she cries for; and I am glad to get away and ride for Rafael Arteaga."

"Rather thin, isn't it, all of that story?" remarked one of the ranchmen. "Bryton, when we asked you to join us didn't you stop to send word to the Downings that you couldn't attend their little celebration in the hills?"

"Yes."

Bryton had turned from the others and was rolling a cigarro. He replied without looking up from his task.

"And it was given in honor of DoÑa Raquel Arteaga and the bishop?"

"I understood so."

"Understood? Why, that was the reason Arteaga gave for refusing to come along," broke in one of the other men. "I heard him."

"That's so; I did too, and I thought at the time a picnic for a woman and a priest was a mighty small excuse to give for evading—"

"Careful!" And the sheriff shot a warning glance at the speaker. "A newly married man was excused, even in Bible times, from going to the wars, so Arteaga's reason is all right."

"Just a moment," said Bryton. "I am as certain as it is possible to be of anything one does not see, that the boy tells the truth. She is there, and she is ill. Let him take the message."

"What makes you think so?" and the sheriff eyed him carefully. Bryton's jaw set stolidly, though his face flushed.

"I know it; that's all," he said, briefly, as he turned away.

"But—"

"The boy is speaking the truth; I know it!"

The sheriff looked after him a moment, and then spoke to one of the others.

"Just keep the boy here a bit until I can see clearer," he said, "if Bryton knows."

He tramped after Bryton, who was going for his own horse tied in the shadow of a pepper tree.

"Bryton, tell me how you know!"

"I can't do it. Take my word or ignore it, as you like." "But, hell, man! it is not your word; it is only your impression! Give me your word as to how you know it, and I'll take it quick. I suppose it's some inside family history you've dropped on; but the lady is at Los Angeles, and it is some other woman they are nursing at the ranch and deceiving the servants about. That is my theory. There are some women mixed up with that Flores outfit, and I happen to know that El Capitan, who is the brain of the gang, is related to the folks at that ranch. Now, is it reasonable to think that Arteaga's wife would ride at dark, alone, over this country where hold-ups are so common? Would he let her? Would not the Downings have known?"

"They probably did know, and Rafael Arteaga certainly did," returned Bryton, impatiently. "Their picnic was more a matter of policy than a pleasure party. They wanted the bishop there, to put an end to that church fight. They wanted DoÑa Raquel Arteaga to serve as an attraction and help them. She has absolutely refused all along to assist with any compromise; and to avoid it this time she has evidently ridden quietly out of Los Angeles, and her husband, who wanted the picnic very much, has kept her absence a secret."

"But if she is as sick as this boy says, how could she take a thirty-mile ride on horseback?"

Bryton made a gesture of impatience. "She is there!" he insisted. "I—I feel that she is there. The sooner you let the boy ride for Arteaga and the doctor, the less likely she is to die."

"Doctor! Did he say anything about a doctor?"

"No."

"You see, if the woman was very ill, the fellow would say it was a doctor he was riding for."

"No; it would be a priest. These women do their own doctoring. If herb teas and prayers can't save a life, it is let die. Good God! She may be dying now while we talk. Let the boy go!"

"Well, I'll be damned!"

The sheriff was staring at Bryton, whose face was white and set. He was untying his horse, with quick decided movements, and cinching up the girth.

"If you don't send the boy on that errand, I'll go myself," he said, curtly.

"Well—I'll be—" The sheriff broke his sentence midway, to stare at Bryton in amazement. "What the devil is it to you?" he demanded. "Arteaga is no bosom friend of yours, is he?"

"Not that I know of. If the boy doesn't go, I go! The girl may be dying, and the help she wants, she's going to get. Speak up!"

He was in the saddle, and the sheriff, with one look at him, walked back to the group. "Boy, do you carry only a message to Don Rafael Arteaga?" he demanded, "or is it a written letter?"

"A letter," said he, sullenly, "and DoÑa Ana raise the hell if you don't let me take it."

"Ah! The DoÑa Ana! I thought so. DoÑa Ana is an interesting little lady. Let me see the letter."

The man hesitated, but finally pulled the letter from his pocket. The sheriff took it and walked back to Bryton.

"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.

"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 DoÑa 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."