"Uncle Carl knows?Then why doesn't he tell?It wasn't dad!"Jean took a defiant step toward him.
"Art Osgood,if you dare say it was dad,I--I'll kill you!"Art smiled at her with a brief lightening of his eyes.
"I believe you would,at that,"he said soberly."But it wasn't your dad,Jean.""Who was it?"
"I--don't--know."
"You do!You do know,Art Osgood!And you ran off;and they gave dad eight years--"Art spoke one word under his breath,and that word was profane."I don't see how that could be,"he said after a minute.
Jean did not answer.She was biting her lips to keep back the tears.She felt that somehow she had failed;that Art Osgood was slipping through her fingers,in spite of the fact that he did not seem to fear her or to oppose her except in the final accusation.It was the lack of opposition,that lack of fear,that baffled her so.
Art,she felt dimly,must be very sure of his own position;was it because he was so close to the Mexican line?
Jean glanced desperately that way.It was very close.
She could see the features of the Mexican soldiers lounging before the cantina over there;through the lighted window of the customhouse she could see a dark-faced officer bending over a littered desk.The guard over there spoke to a friend,and she could hear the words he said.
Jean thought swiftly.She must not let Art Osgood go back across that street.She could cover him with her gun--Art knew how well she could use it!--and she would call for an American officer and have him arrested.Or,Lite was somewhere below;she would call for Lite,and he could go and get an officer and a warrant.
"How soon you going back?"Art asked abruptly,as though he had been pondering a problem and had reached the solution."I'll have to get a leave of absence,or go down on the books as a deserter;and I wouldn't want that.I can get it,all right.I'll go back with you and straighten this thing out,if it's the way you say it is.I sure didn't know they'd pulled your dad for it,Jean."This,coming so close upon the heels of her own decision,set Jean all at sea again.She looked at him doubtfully.
"I thought you said you didn't know,and you wouldn't go back."Art grinned sardonically."I'll lie any time to help a friend,"he admitted frankly."What I do draw the line at is lying to help some cowardly cuss double-cross a man.Your father got the double-cross;I don't stand for anything like that.Not a-tall!"He heaved a sigh of nervous relaxation,for the last half hour had been keyed rather high for them both,and pulled his hat down on his head.
"Say,Jean!Want to go across with me and meet the general?You can make my talk a whole lot stronger by telling what you came for.I'll get leave,all right,then.And you'll know for sure that I'm playing straight.You see that two-story 'dobe about half-way down the block,--the one with the Mexican flag over it?"He pointed."There's where he is.
Want to go over?"
"Any objections to taking me along with you?"This was Lite,coming nonchalantly toward them from the doorway.Lite was still perfectly willing to let Jean manage this affair in her own way,but that did not mean that he would not continue to watch over her.
Lite was much like a man who lets a small boy believe he is driving a skittish team all alone.Jean believed that she was acting alone in this,as in everything else.
She had yet to learn that Lite had for three years been always at hand,ready to take the lines if the team proved too fractious for her.
Art turned and put out his hand."Why,hello,Lite!Sure,you can come along;glad to have you."He eyed Lite questioningly."I'll gamble you've heard all we've been talking about,"he said."That would be you,all right!So you don't need any wising up.
Come on;I want to catch the chief before he goes off somewhere."To see the three of them go down the stairs and out upon the street and across it into Mexico,--which to Jean seemed very queer,--you would never dream of the quest that had brought them together down here on the border.Even Jean was smiling,in a tired,anxious way.She walked close to Lite and never once asked him how he came to be there,or why.She was glad that he was there.She was glad to shift the whole matter to his broad shoulders now,and let him take the lead.
They had a real Mexican dinner in a queer little adobe place where Art advised them quite seriously never to come alone.They had thick soup with a strange flavor,and Art talked with the waiter in Mexican dialect that made Jean glad indeed to feel Lite's elbow touching hers,and to know that although Lite's hand rested idly on his knee,it was only one second from his weapon.She had no definite suspicion of Art Osgood,but all the same she was thankful that she was not there alone with him among all these dark,sharp-eyed Mexicans with their atmosphere of latent treachery.
Lite ate mostly with his left hand.Jean noticed that.It was the only sign of watchfulness that he betrayed,unless one added the fact that he had chosen a seat which brought his back against an adobe wall and his face toward Art and the room,with Jean beside him.That might have been pure chance,and it might not.But Art was evidently playing fair.
A little later they came back to the Casa del Sonora,and Jean went up to her room feeling that a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders.Lite and Art Osgood were out on the veranda,gossiping of the range,and in Art's pocket was a month's leave of absence from his duties.Once she heard Lite laugh,and she stood with one hand full of hairpins and the other holding the brush and listened,and smiled a little.It all sounded very companionable,very care-free,--not in the least as though they were about to clear up an old wrong.
She got into bed and thumped the hard pillow into a little nest for her tired head,and listened languidly to the familiar voices that came to her mingled with confused noises of the street.Lite was on guard;he would not lose his caution just because Art seemed friendly and helpfully inclined,and had meant no treachery over in that queer restaurant.Lite would not be easily tricked.So she presently fell asleep.