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"I'm going back for a couple of miles. Bob was telling me of a Mexican tendejon in the hills kept by the father of a girl Otero goes to see. She might know where he is. If I can get hold of him likely I can make him talk." This struck Crawford as rather a wild-goose chase, but he had nothing better to offer himself in the way of a plan. "Might as well," he said gloomily.
Hank stuck to his guns. "No, sir. She was on that sorrel of hers, an' Keith was ridin' behind her. I saddled myself and took the horse to the store. They was waitin' there for me, the two young folks an' Juan." "Juan?" "Juan Otero. He brought the note an' rode back with her." The old cattleman felt a clutch of fear at his heart. Juan Otero was one of Dug Doble's men. "That all you know, Hank?"
They stopped several times to examine places where they thought it possible Otero might have left the road, but they looked without expectation of any success. They did not even know that the Mexican had started in this direction. As soon as he reached the suburbs, he might have cut back across the plain and followed an entirely different line of travel. Several miles from town Sanders pulled up.
"Not right away. We got hurry-up business first." "I wanta go to my daddy." "Sure. Soon as we can. But we'll drift over to where yore sister's at first off. We're both wore to a frazzle, mebbe, but we got to trail over an' find out what's bitin' Dug." The man saddled and took the up-trail, Keith clinging to his waist. At the head of the gulch the boy pointed out the way he and Otero had come.
He drew out a flat package of currency bound together with rubber bands. His sharp teeth drew off one of the rubbers. From the bundle he stripped four fifty-dollar bills and handed them to Otero. "Peel this kid off'n my leg and hit the trail, Juan. I don' care where you leave him so long as you keep an eye on him till afternoon."
Miraflores was a charming village, or rather small town, nestling among gardens and orchards. "I want to find a muleteer named Dias Otero," Harry said to their guide as they rode into the place. "I know him well," he said. "Everyone about here knows Dias. His wife was a cousin of my mother's." "Do you know whether he is at home now?" "Yes, senor; I saw him in Lima three days ago.
Among the victims was Don Mariano Otero, a distinguished statesman and lawyer. In San Luis and other sections it was prevailing with great severity. The financial affairs of the State of Durango were in such a condition that an extra session of the Legislature had been called in order to save them from total ruin.
One could still read, twenty-three years ago, on a stone of the gate of Otero, an untranslatable inscription the words of the code outraging propriety. In it, however, the shade of difference which existed between the buyers and the stealers of children is very strongly marked.
Dave walked through the open door into the bar-room. Two or three men were lounging at a table. Behind a counter a brown-eyed Mexican girl was rinsing glasses in a pail of water. The young man sauntered forward to the counter. He invited the company to drink with him. "I'm looking for Juan Otero," he said presently. "Mr. Crawford wanted me to see him about riding for him."
The man looked at her a moment, murmured "Buenos, Bonita," and took a step as though to enter the house. Dave barred the way. The flash of apprehension in Bonita's face, her unnecessary repetition of the name, the man's questioning look at her, told Sanders that this was the person he wanted. "Just a minute, Otero. Where did you leave Miss Crawford?" The Mexican's eyes contracted.
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