“Sit down,” said Ranse, removing his hat and taking the one chair in the jacal. “Who am I, Tia Juana?” he asked, speaking Spanish.
“Don Ransom, our good friend and employer. Why do you ask?” answered the old woman wonderingly.
“Tia Juana, who am I?” he repeated, with his stern eyes looking into hers.
A frightened look came in the old woman’s face. She fumbled with her black shawl.
“Who am I, Tia Juana?” said Ranse once more.
“Thirty-two years I have lived on the Rancho Cibolo,” said Tia Juana. “I thought to be buried under the coma mott beyond the garden before these’ things should be known. Close the door, Don Ransom, and I will speak. I see in your face that you know.”
An hour Ranse spent behind Tia Juana’s closed door. As he was on his way back to the house Curly called to him from the wagon-shed.
The tramp sat on his cot, swinging his feet and smoking.
“Say, sport,” he grumbled. “This is no way to treat a man after kidnappin’ him. I went up to the store and borrowed a razor from that fresh guy and had a shave. But that ain’t all a man needs. Say—can’t you loosen up for about three fingers more of that booze? I never asked you to bring me to your d—d farm.”
